


Good Holmesians All, This Christmastide

by Riandra (LostWithoutMyDetective)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Wars
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 12:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 23,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostWithoutMyDetective/pseuds/Riandra
Summary: My response to Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge: fill 1 Christmas-related prompt a day for 31 days, and see what mad adventures the Baker Street gang end up in.





	1. A Visit From St. Nicholas

_From W.Y. Traveller - Sleigh bells._

* * *

_'But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,_

_"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"'_

Holmes sighed as the last Irregular clattered down the stairs and slammed the front door after him. "Really, Watson... you ought to know better than to encourage the boys in such superstitious nonsense."

"Oh, come now, Holmes!" Watson looked up from the pamphlet he was idly rereading with a benign smile. "Don't tell me you never believed in Father Christmas at that age."

Holmes gave a scornful sniff, but Watson was persistent. "Never listened for sleigh bells on Christmas Eve? Reindeer hooves on the roof?"

The detective snorted, but Watson thought he saw a sheepish gleam in his friend's eye. "Holmes?"

"Well... I _may_ once have left the back door unlocked..." Holmes blushed scarlet at Watson's shout of laughter. "I didn't believe in _flying_ reindeer, all right?! If I recall correctly, my reasoning was that if Saint Nicholas were, against all odds, to arrive, he would seek an easier way in than a soot-covered chimney! And you can stop that snickering this instant!"


	2. Secret Santa

_From Aleine Skyfire - Christmas at Scotland Yard_

* * *

"Has everyone put their name in?"

"Yes, Hopkins did his this morning."

"Right, then we can... oh no... All right, which bright spark signed Himself up for this?"

"You're joking!"

"See if I am!"

"Mm, that's definitely not Mr. Holmes's writing. Maybe it's Watson's?"

"Oh, God... and what are the odds we're going to find the doctor's name in there, too?"

"They signed each other up?! Right, only one thing for it, then..."

"This could be called cheating, you know."

"Do _you_ want to find out what the Great Detective considers a suitable gift for any of our lads... or the superintendent?"

"Pass the hat."

* * *

(Part 2 in chapter 13.)


	3. If A Cat Can Look At A King

_From silvermouse – Stray grey named Mary_

* * *

"Mary? Ma- _ry!_ "

At any prior time in his life, Watson might not have paid particular heed to the call... well, perhaps he would have, but the quavering childish voice calling the very name occupying his thoughts this December evening did make him pause and look round.

"Mary!" A little girl in a mud-spattered coat stood in the middle of the alley he was passing, wide eyes seeming far too large for her thin face as she looked around frantically, and as Watson drew closer, he saw that they were filled with tears.

"My poor child, are you lost?" The girl shrank back into a nearby doorway, eyes now wide with growing fear. Watson stopped at once and took a step backwards, careful not to smile; he knew only too well that waifs like this often learned the hard way not to trust such niceties. "Don't be frightened," he said loudly. "You were calling a name I know, that's all. Is Mary your sister?"

The child shook her head mutely, not budging an inch.

"Would you like me to find a policeman?" No use in offering himself as escort.

The child gasped. "Oh no, please, sir! I didn' mean no 'arm! I won' let 'er run away ever agin, I swear!"

Watson could have kicked himself as the little one suddenly burst into tears. "No, no, of course not! I beg your pardon, I..." He fell silent, seeing that the waif wasn't paying him any heed. Giving her a few moments to compose herself, he tried again: "May I help you to find Mary? What does she look like?"

The little girl sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Sh-she's gray all over, 'cept her front paws is white."

Watson nodded, hiding a smile at his own foolishness – he should have realised. "My dear, I'm sure there's no need to worry. Cats are very good at finding their way home, you know, especially if they're hungry."

"But she's been gorn three days now, sir – she's nivver stayed away more'n one!"

Damn... The child probably knew as well as Watson did what fates could befall a stray cat in that time. "Well, I shall be sure to keep a sharp lookout," he said aloud. "Who can I give a message to if I do see her?"

"They know 'er at the King's 'Ead, she likes goin' there – 'cept they ain' seen 'er this time, I axed!"

"I'm sure you did. But you must go home now, child; it's late and your family will be anxious."

The girl nodded, but still didn't move until Watson had turned and walked away from her. Poor child, learning to be so wary so young... and what the devil had he just gotten himself into? _Holmes, what would you do right now?_ Holmes would have asked the child a lot more questions, that was what, assuming he were bored enough to take on such a hopeless case!

Well, he might as well start with his only lead: the cat could have turned up at the pub in the time since the child had inquired, and a drop of ale would be a welcome thing on a night like this. Besides, landlords were much more inclined to answer the questions of paying customers...

* * *

"And when you got to the King's Head, you discovered that the landlord himself keeps a large tomcat."

"Dash it, Holmes, how...?!" Watson suddenly looked down at his trouser legs and ruefully noted the telltale black and white hairs reaching almost high as his knee, and even a few tiny pieces of hay still clinging to the cuffs: the mother had been found comfortably ensconced with her kittens in the hayloft of the stable opposite.

"Precisely," Holmes nodded, trying not to look smug and failing completely. "Well, not a bad evening's work, old chap, although..."

"Yes, I know: I could have asked the child if she'd noticed the cat putting on weight lately!" Watson sighed, stretching his slippered feet out towards the blazing hearth. "It's a shame about the kittens, though..."

"Watson, that poor child's family couldn't afford to keep one cat, never mind two more! Really, my dear fellow, you know as well as I how few of our cases end happily for all involved."

"Mm..."

Holmes threw his friend a sharp sideways look. "Watson, if you think for one moment that we–"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Holmes, don't be so silly! But you know how much trouble I've been having in choosing a gift for Mary..."


	4. A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, and Thou

_From Garonne – A bottle of wine_

* * *

"Oh, John!" Mary's eyes sparkled in the light of the crystal chandelier as the hotel attendant took their coats. "You shouldn't have!"

"Oh, I quite agree," Watson sighed, his own eyes twinkling as he escorted her into the Savoy's dining room. "But what can a man do when he marries such a determined parvenu?" It wasn't often that they could afford to dine at a high-end establishment like this; he'd been secretly walking to his practice for weeks to save cab fare.

Mary giggled, squeezing his arm with hers. "Well, you'd best pray I don't acquire a taste for the high life, my dashing young officer!" she murmured, voice full of promise for the evening ahead... then suddenly tensed, her head whipping around to the right.

"Mary? Whatever's the matter?"

His wife turned back to him with the strangest expression on her face, but shook her head, smiling foolishly. "No, it's nothing. Silly of me, I thought..."

"Thought what? That you saw someone we know?" Watson looked in the direction she had, but couldn't see any familiar faces.

"Well, yes, for a moment... but it couldn't have been, surely – not here, of all places!"

"Well, we're here, aren't we? Maybe they're doing the same as us, getting in early before the Christmas rush sets in."

Mary gave him an oddly sceptical look, but didn't contradict him. The rest of their evening was all that Watson had hoped it would be: a delicious meal in elegant surroundings, enjoyed in pleasant company. They were in the middle of choosing between a wide selection of equally tempting desserts, when Mary glanced up at him, about to say something... and inhaled sharply, her startled gaze fixed on a spot beyond his left shoulder.

"Mary...?" Watson was on the verge of turning to look, but stopped as she gave a quick warning shake of her head. "What is it?" he breathed, relieved to see that she at least looked more bewildered than alarmed, with perhaps a touch of... resignation?

"John... the gentleman dining alone a few tables behind you."

"What about him?"

"Turn around as discreetly as you can, and tell me if you recognise the waiter presenting the wine..."

* * *

A/N: Intrigued? Just what is Holmes doing, acting the part of a waiter? Part 2 in chapter 7.


	5. The Ferret and Hound

_From Domina Temporis – A crossover with the TV show of your choice_

* * *

The place where Lestrade drank when he was more than usually fed up with his lot didn't seem to have a name. He couldn't even find it most of the time... but when he really _needed_ to sit and drown his sorrows after a long day, he'd somehow find himself standing on the threshold. This evening was no different, the mottled oak door seeming to lean out of the December murk and beckon him in like an old friend.

The landlord nodded in sympathy as he trudged wearily up to the bar. "The usual, Inspector?"

"Please." Lestrade hauled himself up onto a stool, digging in his coat pocket for coins and tossing the right ones on the bar, then adding a couple more after a moment's thought. "Here, have one yourself, Bill."

"Thank you kindly, sir! Happy Christmas."

"Oh, aye..." Lestrade sighed deeply, taking a long gulp of his beer when it was placed in front of him. " _Detectives_ ," he muttered bitterly to the amber depths.

"Tell me about it..." Too tired to be startled, Lestrade slowly looked over at the only other person sitting at the bar: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a long brown trenchcoat, with a full but neatly-trimmed moustache. His weathered features reminded the Inspector vaguely of a bloodhound, probably because of the eyes: mournful at the best of times, he'd guess, but made even more so by the heavy bags underneath. And right now, those eyes were giving him the most empathetic look he'd ever seen from anyone besides his own Yarders. "You too, eh?"

Lestrade snorted. "Don't get me started! Just when you think the man can't get any more insufferable..."

"He goes and surpasses himself." The man smiled grimly down at his glass of stout. "If only he didn't get it right so bloody often, you could tell him where to stick it."

"If only!" Lestrade groaned. "Honestly, every time, I swear to myself it's the last time..."

"...and the very next week, you're climbing back up those very same stairs, hat in hand..."

"...and it's never _you_ he's pleased to see, is it, oh no – that gleam in his eye is all for whatever 'little problem' you're bringing him..."

"Well..." His drinking companion hesitated. "I wouldn't say that, exactly. Mine's not the most sociable fellow, but he's never made me feel unwelcome. And that Captain friend of his, he's a blessed good sort..."

"A captain?" Lestrade gave a bark of laughter, signalling the landlord for two more pints. "Mine has a major! Ex-army doctor – don't ask me what those two see in each other. Us chaps never thought they'd stand living together outside of a week..."

It was the taller man's turn to snicker. "Blimey! Mine couldn't do that longer than five minutes, too fussy by half..."


	6. First Foot

_From I'm Nova – Kid John Watson's Christmas._

* * *

_"Happy New Year! Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind..."_

John hugged himself tightly, jigging about in the snow to keep warm, breath billowing from his mouth like smoke in the frosty air. He might freeze to death if they didn't sing a bit faster – not that anyone knew he was out here, why should they? He'd known he wouldn't be missed when he slipped out the back way, none of his Yorkshire relatives had ever bothered with first-footing before.

_"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne..."_

He enjoyed Hogmanay as much as any of his immediate family, but John couldn't deny that this first English Christmas had made a very pleasant change from having to wait until New Year – especially the food! He looked down at the basket at his feet with a wistful sigh, wishing he'd thought to swipe a mince pie on his way out. The little he'd managed to pilfer without anyone seeing him wasn't what he'd hoped for, but it was the best he could do: a bit of shortbread saved from his afternoon tea, a lump of coal and Aunt Lizzie's salt cellar from the kitchen, and the florin from Harry's slice of pudding, which he'd all but choked on before anyone could warn him to eat slowly. His brother would probably take revenge for the theft later, but he would have to get in line, of course...

_"For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne..."_

John scowled at the sound of his father's strident baritone dominating the chorus – art imitating life, oh aye. So much for starting off the New Year afresh, Hamish Watson Sr. never lost an opportunity to remind his second son that he was exactly that... and this afternoon was no different. Cousin Emily had come in crying because the family terrier had run off with her beloved rag doll, ripping one of its arms before she could rescue it. Seeing that everyone else was occupied, John had borrowed his aunt's sewing box and stitched up the 'wound' as neatly as he could. In hindsight, it probably hadn't been the best moment to practice his suturing technique.

_"We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne."_

The resulting argument wasn't their worst ever, but it had come close, his father's voice only slightly subdued by all the listening ears on the floor below. John had known he was meant to be a doctor for as long as he could remember, a conviction that the family patriarch had failed to share or appreciate for almost as long. As if all the thrashings in the world could beat a man's vocation out of him! Just five more years... He could wait.

_"And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely I'll be mine! And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne."_

In the meantime, though... he would have to weather whatever storm blew up at him when Hamish Sr. realised what his stubborn youngest son was telling him by putting the first foot over the threshold. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his basket, stepped forward and knocked loudly. He didn't have the traditional dark hair, but it couldn't be helped, and doctors were just as lucky as blacksmiths...


	7. In Vino Veritas

_From Hades Lord of the Dead - Missing passport_

* * *

(Sequel to chapter 4.)

Heart racing, Watson turned in his seat as casually as he could manage, holding the dessert menu high enough to hide his features from a casual glance. Thanks to Mary's forewarning, he was able to keep from reacting outwardly, but it was still a shock to see that his wife's eyes hadn't deceived her – not that Holmes was difficult to recognise, wearing no disguise of any kind, save for the waiter's uniform!

Anxious not to arouse suspicion, Watson then turned back around at the same speed and focused on the bill of fare, although not registering a single word of it now. "What on earth is the man doing?" he murmured in bemusement.

"Which one?" Mary murmured back, watching from under her brows. "If you mean Sherlock, he's being the perfect _sommelier_! I've seen waiters at French restaurants less polished."

"Well, Holmes does have French ancestry, that's got to count for something." Watson was itching to turn back around again, but he didn't dare, and it would be pointless with Mary already perfectly placed. "Any idea who he's waiting on?" He hadn't had time to observe the gentleman at the table as well.

"I can't tell from here, but he doesn't seem familiar to me – his suit looks of good quality, though. Sherlock's giving him the cork... he's giving it back... Sherlock's pouring the first taste – oh, it's a red, he must have ordered the steak tartare... he's smelling it... tasting it... he's nodding, it's a good one. Sherlock's pouring out a glass... bowing..." Mary's forehead creased faintly, looking perplexed.

"What is it, what's happening?" Watson almost hissed in his excitement.

"Nothing. Sherlock's going back to the kitchen."

"Oh." Watson let his shoulders sag, feeling oddly disappointed.

"John, what should we do? Do you think Sherlock saw us?"

"I wouldn't be surprised..." Watson pursed his lips in thought. "Well, it seems unlikely that even Holmes will be needing backup in a setting like this, and he won't want either of us blundering in blindly. Unless something untoward happens, we might as well simply carry on as planned."

Mary nodded, an impish gleam in her eye. "All right – and don't think I can't see you're half hoping that something _will_ happen, Doctor Watson!"

"As are you, my dear," Watson grinned teasingly. He knew that look only too well.

"I don't know what you mean, I'm sure," Mary sniffed in mock affront. "Now, the orange parfait sounds delicious, what do you think?"

* * *

Watson felt quite certain that Mary hadn't really tasted a bite of her dessert, any more than he had his, or the coffees after that – but nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen for the rest of the meal, Holmes failing to even make a second appearance. The couple lingered for as long as they dared, but were eventually forced to admit defeat and make a discreet exit, leaving their mysterious fellow patron to continue dining in peace.

"Well, what a night!" Mary exclaimed once they were safely behind their own front door. "I declare, John, I'm quite wild with curiosity!"

"You do surprise me," Watson chuckled as he hung up their coats. "Well, I'll ask Holmes about it when I see him next, but he may not be at liberty to tell even me, you know."

"I know," Mary sighed, peeling off her gloves as she walked into the parlour. "Still, if the wretched man is going to intrude on our first evening out in months with an investigation, he might at least do us the courtesy of explaining."

"Mary! I'm sure Holmes never intended..."

His wife laughed. "Oh, John, you should see your face! Of course he didn't!"

Watson laughed, too, catching her hands in his. "Wicked, unfeeling woman!" he murmured tenderly, drawing her into his arms – she looked so lovely in her evening gown, he'd been waiting for this moment all night. "However did I marry such a...?"

"Shrew? Harridan? Fishwife?" she asked, arching a saucy eyebrow, winding her arms about his neck.

"Oh, all of the above..." Just as their lips touched, they were startled by a knock at the door. "Who the devil...?"

Mary's frustrated sigh had an affectionate edge to it. "No, dear, even the devil has better timing than that..."

And when Watson answered the door, sure enough, Holmes stood on the step, bundled up against the cold. "Holmes!" He hoped he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt. "Come in, my dear fellow, you must be frozen!"

"Thank you." Holmes's apologetic smile told Watson that the detective knew he wasn't as welcome just now as he might have been. "I shan't stay long, I promise you – but after seeing your names in the Savoy's ledger..."

"So you did know!" Mary smiled from the sitting room doorway. "Do come in and get warm, Sherlock! We'd both very much like to hear about the case, if we may."

"Then I should be delighted to oblige," Holmes smiled back, stepping inside and divesting himself of his hat and scarf. "Which reminds me..." He reached inside his coat and brought out a sleek, glossy object. "A small token of my appreciation for your actions this evening, or I should say, lack thereof."

Watson gaped at the bottle's label, which still bore traces of dust. "Château Lafite Rothschild '45 – Holmes! Did you...?"

"Liberate it from the hotel cellar?" Holmes chuckled. "My dear Watson, don't look so scandalised. The Savoy's wine steward is unlikely to report one missing bottle when he's on the take himself."

Watson sighed and shook his head, following Holmes into the parlour. "Well, we shan't refuse such a thoughtful gift, though perhaps we ought... but you would hardly go to all that trouble for a crooked _sommelier_ , Holmes! The man you were serving, who was he?"

"You observed nothing about him?"

"Rather difficult when I had my back to him for all but a few moments!" Watson responded dryly, although not averse to playing the deduction game.

"His evening clothes seemed of good quality," Mary ventured, "and the rose in his buttonhole could only have come from a hothouse at this time of year, that must have been expensive!"

"Not to mention his dining at the Savoy in the first place. What wine did he order, Holmes?"

The detective shook his head, wearing his most maddening enigmatic smile. "The wine was immaterial, Watson; the man could have ordered a glass of beer and I would still have attained my object!"

Mary gasped and clapped her hands. "Then it was the glass, wasn't it? He would have left his fingerprints on the wine glass and the bottle!"

"And with all the waiters wearing gloves..." Watson nodded, greatly enjoying the look of astonished approval on Holmes's face at Mary's rapid deduction. "But Holmes, you can't have forgotten that fingerprints still aren't considered permissible evidence in a court of law!"

"No," Holmes agreed, "I hadn't forgotten, but I highly doubt that the gentleman in question is aware of this fact. William Atherton happens to be one of Scotland Yard's most wanted forgers, and his speciality is identity theft: passports, birth certificates and the like. When you saw him this evening, he was perpetrating quite the audacious act of fraud, dining under the name of a guest at another hotel, at their unwitting expense."

"Goodness!" Mary exclaimed innocently. "John, why didn't we think of that?"

Watson raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then exchanged a speaking grin with Holmes. "So Lestrade enlisted your help?"

"Indeed. Atherton is quite the expert at his trade, but he did slip up recently, leaving a clear fingerprint in a wax seal on some rather important documents."

"And Lestrade's hoping to use the matched prints to lean on him for a confession." Watson nodded in approval. "Well, my dear fellow, may I suggest the three of us open this excellent vintage and drink a toast to a hopefully successful conclusion?"

Holmes shook his head regretfully but firmly. "Tempting as the prospect is, Watson, I have imposed on your hospitality long enough." He rose from his chair and bowed over Mary's hand. "My deepest apologies for intruding upon your evening, my dear Mary."

"Nonsense, Sherlock, you did no such thing!" Mary smiled sincerely. "John describes you at work so vividly in his stories, it was quite thrilling to see it in person."

When a still-blushing Holmes had taken his leave, Watson returned to the parlour to find his wife examining the detective's gift with interest. "Shall we try it, my dear?"

"Oh no, John, let's leave it till Christmas. Sherlock really ought to share it, too."

"You think Holmes would come to dinner?" Watson came up behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek, glad beyond words to be alone with her again at last.

"I'm sure we can persuade him," Mary murmured, snuggling her beautiful blonde head into the crook of his neck.

"Oh aye, lass, I ken how persuasive ye can be..."

"Oh, John..."


	8. Bald

_From Domina Temporis - A tea-related tragedy (First 221B for this!)_

* * *

"She's lying."

Holmes and Lestrade's heads both snapped up to stare at Watson standing in the parlour doorway, through which the murdered man's housekeeper had just departed.

Lestrade found his voice first. "Mrs. Morgan? What makes you say that, Doctor?" He'd thought Watson was still outside, helping his constables to search the grounds.

"She claims to have been a widow these past twenty years, but even bereaved women don't wear their rings backwards." Watson smiled grimly. "A bride traditionally puts her wedding band on first, then guards it with her engagement ring so she needn't take it off again."

"Well, all right, that is a bit odd, but surely..."

Watson shook his head, pulling something out of his pocket: a woman's hair brush, its bristles thickly matted with long chestnut strands. "Fascinating stuff, thallium sulfate: it's colourless, odourless, tasteless, dissolves in almost any liquid..." He glanced down wryly at the fragments of porcelain teacup and sodden lumps of Christmas cake on the parlour floor; "but without proper precautions, even a small amount absorbed through the skin can make one's hair fall out."

He tossed the laden brush to Lestrade and patted a crestfallen Holmes on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, old fellow – I'm quite sure you would have deduced it sooner if poor Lord Cheltenham hadn't already been bald."

* * *

_"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner..."_ Sherlock Holmes, 'The Empty House'.


	9. To Name But A Few

_From KnightFury – Fireside memories_

* * *

Scorch marks on curtains and holes in wallpaper  
Footprints that bypass a brand-new boot scraper  
Armchairs and sofas with poking-out springs  
These are a landlady's most hated things.

Chemical spills and tobacco in slippers  
'Clients' revealed to be gawkers and trippers  
Waking at midnight when front doorbell rings  
These are a landlady's most hated things.

_Mrs. Hudson sits and wonders_   
_For the thousandth time_   
_Whyever she took in these two madcap men_   
_So strangely obsessed with crime._

Kitchen door slammed just as soufflé arises  
Wardrobes crammed full of revolting disguises  
Linen scrubbed threadbare where blood and mud clings  
These are a landlady's most hated things.

Snowdrifts of pipe ash and newspaper towers  
Violin concertos at ungodly hours  
No advance warning of visits from kings  
These are a landlady's most hated things.

_Mrs. Hudson sips her coffee,_   
_Smiles at dancing flames._   
_A peaceful Yuletide has its benefits, true,_   
_But it just wouldn't be the same..._

* * *

A/N: Okay, hands up all those who started singing in their heads! =)


	10. A Whitehall Christmas

_From Madam'zelleGiry – Who does Mycroft send Christmas cards to every year?_

* * *

December, 1883.

Mycroft sighed as Spencer departed the office, the unfortunate underling wisely limiting himself to the usual quiet "Good night, Mr. Holmes." He looked down at the fat bundle on the desk before him in deep distaste. His aide had clearly done his best, but the public's growing enthusiasm for the more ornate Christmas cards meant that manufacturers were falling over themselves to outdo one another in sheer vulgarity.

What had the German ambassador called it only last week: _Kitsch_? A word that conveyed a wealth of meaning in a single syllable – the creators of these velvet-and-lace-covered eyesores could have benefited hugely from a similar attitude.

Well, it would be amusing to add the ambassador to the list this year, perhaps, just to remind him that even lighthearted observations should be made with care. Germany's treaty with Korea had only recently been finalised...

Sherlock would, of course, receive the usual telegram; his brother would never allow him to live down sending one of these monstrosities. But should he include greetings to Dr. Watson in the same message, or send the doctor's individually? Drat it, he should have asked Spencer's advice before the man left for the night.

Her Majesty, yes. Prime Minister Gladstone, yes. The new Archbishop, definitely... and it had better be a card this year rather than a telegram; Benson had a wife and children, unlike his predecessor.

No need to send one to the Marxes, he'd sent genuinely regretful condolences last March to the philosopher's surviving family... then again, perhaps he ought. The man had provided Mycroft with a great deal of food for thought over the years, an increasingly rare pleasure these days.

His pen moved on down the page, circling, crossing, annotating... ah. He'd forgotten about this last name, added on a whim a fortnight ago. The pen hovered for a moment longer, then slowly, reluctantly scratched a thick, black line through the neat copperplate. Truly tempting, if only to discomfit the man by confirming Whitehall's surveillance of his activities, but it would be most counterproductive in the long term...


	11. Weighing Anchor

_From Aleine Skyfire – Moriarty is young Sherlock's mentor._

(Star Wars crossover for this one – blame the new movies! =) After seeing the first 6 films umpteen times on TV, this prompt put me strongly in mind of the semi father-son relationship between Palpatine and Anakin in Episodes 2 and 3.)

* * *

"Enter."

The tall, young man squared his thin shoulders, the door hissing open at his touch, and walked into the office. Not that he thought the man who had requested his presence would be deceived for an instant, but even a soon-to-be Jedi Knight ought to carry himself with dignity at all times – or so his elderly master kept saying. "You sent for me, Senator?"

"Ah, Holmes, thank you for coming." Senator Moriarty looked up from reading a datapad report with a welcoming, if weary, smile. "Do take a seat."

"Thank you, Senator. I should like to apologise once more for declining your invitation to the Winter Fête last week. Master Nusep seemed to think my time could be..." Sherlock wondered if the man had noted the flicker of irritation in his eyes; "spent more constructively."

Moriarty nodded, favouring his young guest with a sympathetic look. "I imagine you and Master Nusep are both looking forward to your apprenticeship ending with the deepest regret," he remarked innocently.

Sherlock barely suppressed a snort. "Oh, quite." He and his master were complete polar opposites, had been at odds over almost every aspect of his training, ever since an orphaned Tatooine street rat had unwittingly tried to pick a Jedi Knight's pocket on Boonta Eve... and the dour old Svivreni had never allowed Sherlock to live down that unpromising beginning. "But as my... venerable teacher has so often said: 'The final step of one journey is merely the first step of another.'"

"An encouraging thought," Moriarty responded, wry tone speaking volumes. "But I did not invite you here to discuss philosophy on this occasion." He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, regarding Sherlock thoughtfully. "May I ask if you have given any thought to how you might occupy yourself after your graduation?"

"Well, some," Sherlock admitted a trifle sheepishly, though deeply gratified at the Senator's implicit confidence in his passing the Trials; precious few of the other Padawans seemed to think he stood a chance, or the masters, either! Sherlock had to be grateful to Nusep for this, at least. It had been a rare moment of agreement between teacher and pupil: that the High Council be persuaded to allow Sherlock to complete his training in the shortest time permissible. "But I hadn't decided on any one path yet. Of course, the Council have made a great many... suggestions of their own..." He stopped in confusion, colouring as he realised how resentful he must sound.

Moriarty tutted. "If you will forgive the personal observation, my young friend..." The man chuckled, though not unkindly, as Sherlock's eyes widened in astonished pleasure, blush deepening. "Somehow I cannot envision you being content to remain at the Order's beck and call – not once you have stepped out into the world without a permanent second shadow."

Sherlock stared down at the carpet, blank expression carefully masking his growing inner turmoil. Moriarty's words were really nothing new, they had whispered in the corners of his mind every time he found himself chafing under the weight of the Jedi Code, to which Nusep had added his own people's rules of etiquette, most of them appearing nonsensical to his Padawan. But what else could one expect from a Svivreni? "Senator, I..."

"Oh, come, my boy, no need to mince words between these four walls. I do not doubt that old Kenit Nusep did his duty by you, insofar as he was able, but he would have done better still to display a little more faith in your abilities, given you the opportunity to prove your worth. Which brings me rather neatly to the reason I wished to speak with you."

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Then I gather that you had ulterior motives in inviting me to your winter solstice?" What he knew of the Pelagians' celebrations here on Coruscant sounded wonderful, he would have loved to attend.

Moriarty smiled proudly. "Quite so. I must return to Pelagon for a time, how long exactly I cannot say... but the art of diplomacy is best not performed alone, and I should be happy to postpone the journey until you are free to accompany me." He hesitated suddenly, brow furrowed. "That is, of course, if you are willing to accept such an unpleasant first solo mission."

Sherlock's eyes shone as he all but sprang to his feet, bowing deeply. "Senator, I would be honoured!"

Moriarty rose, smiling paternally. "Then I shall petition the Jedi Council without delay – although I feel fairly confident that they can spare you to me for the duration."

Sherlock couldn't help grinning at that – he also had little doubt over how the councillors would vote – then sobered. "Thank you, Senator. You... you don't know what this means to me."

"Nonsense, dear boy, my motives are entirely selfish, I promise you: I should have greatly missed our talks together if you had been assigned elsewhere." Moriarty laid a fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder for a moment. "But now you had best return to the Temple – your masters will no doubt expect a detailed report on all of my insidious plans to undermine the Republic."

Sherlock laughed, bowed again, and vanished out the door. Pelagon in winter! And the whole planet was one giant _ocean_ , he'd always wanted to try ice skating...

* * *

A/N: Of course, no one in the Star Wars universe celebrates Christmas as we know it, so the Pelagians' winter solstice was the closest I could get to it. It seemed fitting for my own AU headcanon, too: Moriarty coming from an oceanic world, and Sherlock from the desert.

This eventually became a four-parter, parts 2-4 can be found in chapters 17, 18 and 19.


	12. Burner

_From KnightFury – Writing a letter. (Next 221B.)_

* * *

Arriving home from a pleasant evening at the theatre with Mary, a peculiar sight met Watson's eyes as he entered the sitting room: one of Holmes's youngest Irregulars was prowling around the room, gaze darting about, while Holmes looked on expectantly from the settee, holding a pad and pencil.

Davy suddenly gasped, turning with a hopeful grin. "Bullet 'oles?"

Holmes laughed, but shook his head. "No, keep looking!"

"Holmes, what on earth...?" Watson looked over the detective's shoulder, reading the page in growing perplexity, which held a large number of shakily printed letter B's under a single neater one.

Holmes looked suddenly sheepish, cheeks turning faintly pink. "Davy had a Christmas letter from his father in prison, and he needed someone to read it to him. So I thought, well, since he was here, and I was unoccupied..."

"That you'd start teaching him his letters?" Watson smiled.

"Well, he is due to begin school next year." Holmes flipped back to the previous page, covered by a horde of increasingly neat A's.

Watson stared. "Antimacassar?"

"He guessed it in five minutes," Holmes grinned proudly.

Watson chuckled, then sighed as he saw where the detective's gaze was now going. "Well, before you get too clever, Holmes," he murmured, "you might want to consider whether the lad's ever even heard of a Bunsen burner."

* * *

A/N: The first records of games like this being played are from the early 20th century. Still, I can totally imagine Holmes coming up with something like the modern 'I Spy'.


	13. Present Tribulations

_From cjnwriter – Almost too late_

* * *

(Sequel to Chapter 2.)

Mrs. Hudson had been enjoying a relatively peaceful morning for a change, both of her lodgers leaving the flat early, the doctor to call on Miss Morstan, Mr. Holmes on some mysterious errand of his own. His landlady wasn't about to inquire – tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and she still had a great deal to do.

With morning chores complete and lunch cooking, Mrs. Hudson had just brought out her Christmas cake for its final dose of brandy, when she was startled by the sound of the back door opening. "Really, boys," she called sternly, "you couldn't even wait one day? I told you your gingerbread wouldn't be ready before..." Her voice trailed off as Mr. Holmes appeared in the doorway, looking extremely furtive and making frantic shushing gestures! "Mr. Holmes?"

"Watson isn't back yet, is he?" he whispered anxiously.

"No, he said not to expect him until dinnertime." The landlady's eyes narrowed as the detective visibly relaxed, though still looking greatly harassed. "Mr. Holmes, whatever have you gone and done _now_?"

"Nothing! Well... nothing dreadful, at all events..."

The landlady said nothing, her raised eyebrow eloquent.

Mr. Holmes perched himself on the edge of her rocking chair, stretching his hands out to the wood stove. "Er, perhaps you are aware that Lestrade and his colleagues hold an anonymous gift exchange every Christmas Eve?" When Mrs. Hudson nodded, he went on with a sigh: "Well, I thought it would be amusing to put Watson's name into the draw..."

"And?" Though the widow already had a strong notion of where this was going.

"And then I discovered that someone had put my name in as well."

Mrs. Hudson tutted, shaking her head. No need to ask whose name Mr. Holmes had drawn, the answer was there in his face. "Well, I don't know why I'm surprised, you leaving something like this till the last minute! Still, I'm sure you can find the doctor a nice..." She stopped in confusion as Mr. Holmes snorted.

"Nice! Oh, indeed! A suitable gift for the princely sum of one shilling..."

"A shilling?!"

"That's all any of us were supposed to spend!"

_Were_ supposed to? "I gather you have already found something, then?"

"In a manner of speaking..." Mr. Holmes groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "I was browsing among the shops on Tottenham Court Road this morning, when whom should I see but Watson coming the other way!"

"Well, why should that alarm you? If you'll forgive my saying so, Mr. Holmes, I've never yet seen you at a loss for a plausible excuse."

"I... I was afraid he might guess – besides, I had taken care to tell him that I would be at the library all day!"

Mrs. Hudson cast her eyes up to the ceiling with a deep sigh. "Go on..."

"I hurried inside the nearest shop, which turned out to be a pawnbroker's, thinking that I had successfully escaped Watson's notice... and then I saw him looking in the window!" The detective's face was rapidly turning scarlet. "I confess, I... quite lost my head at that point, and ducked behind the counter before he could see me."

Mrs. Hudson kept a straight face with immense difficulty. "Dear me. I don't imagine the pawnbroker was impressed by such antics."

The detective hung his head. "I narrowly prevented him from instantly showing me the door–" He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a small paper packet; "by spending my shilling in his establishment." He undid the packet to reveal a dingy-looking watch chain, almost black with tarnish. "Everything else was either too expensive or entirely unsuitable – or both," he said gloomily.

"Well, I don't think you've done too badly, under the circumstances," Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly. Doctor Watson did already have a watch and chain, of course, but it never hurt to have a spare. "Give that to me, I'll have it looking like new in no time."

"Thank you." Mr. Holmes watched with mild interest as the landlady prepared a saucer of vinegar and salt, but still looking rather morose. "I'd just hoped to find something a little more... memorable, I suppose."

Mrs. Hudson refrained from pointing out that this particular gift was likely to stick in one lodger's memory for quite some time. "Well, you have that gold sovereign from Mrs. Norton on your own watch chain, don't you? Why not put something special to the doctor on this one?"

Mr. Holmes's mouth fell open. Next moment, Mrs. Hudson was squawking in surprise as the detective jumped up and hugged her, then hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

The mystified woman remained in the dark until Christmas morning, when she saw that Dr. Watson's waistcoat was newly adorned with a gleaming silver watch chain, although nothing seemed to be attached to it, except for the watch itself... oh. Of course, the very thing. Mrs. Hudson went back down to the kitchen with a misty smile, reflecting that, for a self-proclaimed intellectual, Mr. Holmes really did have his occasional moments of brilliance.

* * *

A/N: Those wondering about the second watch, remember the opening chapter of 'The Sign of the Four'?


	14. Foreign Parts

_From Domina Temporis – Watson is introduced to opera_

* * *

Holmes had always thought that opera was a black-and-white issue: that a person either adored it or they couldn't stand it. Watson had swiftly disproved that theory, however; the doctor didn't object to Holmes playing his beloved Wagner on the new phonograph, and would even stay to listen himself on occasion, but whenever Holmes suggested that the two of them attend the actual opera, his friend would always gratefully yet firmly decline.

Knowing that he was fortunate to have a flatmate who tolerated his taste in music, Holmes took care not to turn indifference to outright dislike by playing his growing collection of disc records too often. His curiosity, however, refused to be curbed.

"Watson, if I may ask," he inquired one foggy November evening, "what is it exactly about opera that fails to, er, inspire you?"

Watson eyed his friend warily, but didn't immediately answer.

"The stories, perhaps? I will be the first to admit that operas don't tend to end well for any of the protagonists..."

"For heaven's sake, Holmes," Watson sighed, "I'm not some moonstruck adolescent! Yes, I do prefer a satisfying conclusion, but you've found me reading Shakespeare's tragedies often enough, have you not?"

Holmes had to acknowledge the truth of that.

"And as to their plausibility, _I_ will be the first to admit that any of Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas can be quite as fantastic."

Holmes hummed in agreement, although he felt that 'ridiculous' might have been a better word. "Well, what then? The performers? The most divine prima donna's voice can even wear on me after a time..."

"No, it's not the singing – well, not exactly..." The doctor sighed. "This is something of an embarassment, Holmes."

"My dear fellow! Pray say no more, it was never my intention to..."

Watson cut off the detective's protests with a wave of his hand and a smile of resignation. "It's the words, Holmes. I never was all that wonderful with foreign languages: my French and German are of schoolboy standard, at best, and I've almost no Italian beyond what I picked up from learning Latin terms in medical college." He gestured helplessly. "I know one can get a general sense of what's being sung from the acting, but I just... hate feeling as if I'm missing half of the conversation!"

Holmes nodded slowly, smiling in sympathy. "And one can hardly expect the theaters to provide in-house translators."

Watson's lips twitched. "Or ask the stage crew to hold up giant placards!"

The pair dissolved into snickers, and the subject was dropped for the time being, but their conversation had only replaced Holmes's interest with the resolve that his friend should not be deprived of potential enjoyment for want of a little ingenuity...

* * *

A few weeks later, Watson hurried up the stairs, his arms full of that morning's post. "I say, Holmes, what do you make of...?" But the sitting room was deserted. Oh well, he would just have to deduce this mysterious package all by himself. Definitely a box of some kind, but extremely flat, roughly the same dimensions as one of Holmes's commonplace books. Watson's name and address were typewritten, so no clues there; no stamp or postmark, and the string and brown paper were both Post Office issue.

Well, nothing else for it... Watson undid the string, tore off the paper, lifted the lid... and stared. The box was the size of a scrapbook for a reason – it contained a stack of handwritten pages, and the writing looked very familiar...

Watson reached slowly into the box and picked up the first page of _Tristan and Isolde._

"Westwärts schweift der Blick..." he read haltingly, then the translation beside it: " _Westward strays the eye..._ Ostwärts streicht das Schiff... _Eastward flies the ship..._ Frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu... _Fresh blows the wind towards home..._ Holmes..." Watson shook his head in wonder, then a slight sound made him look up to see the detective standing in the doorway, smiling shyly but hopefully.

"You might want to skip to the end, just this once?"

A broad smile spread across Watson's face, and he lifted the bundle out of the box, revealing two pasteboard tickets underneath. "Holmes, I'm speechless! You've actually been working on this since...?" He'd all but forgotten about that uncomfortable revelation.

"Well... I may have had a little assistance from Mycroft." Holmes grinned unrepentantly. "Truth be told, Watson, my German has never been that wonderful, either!"


	15. Smells Like Trouble

(Copying cjnwriter and putting the prompt at the end – you'll see why!)

* * *

Lestrade smiled warmly at Mrs. Hudson when the door opened, touching his hat brim. "Good evening, ma'am."

"Inspector, how nice to see you!" The landlady sounded very much in earnest, ushering Lestrade inside, which the Yarder took to mean his visit would be a welcome one. Poor woman, it had to be just as hard for her as for the doctor when the Great Detective was at a loose end.

"You've timed it perfectly, they just came in themselves a few minutes ago..."

_Bang!_

Lestrade didn't even stop to think, barely hearing Mrs. Hudson's shriek as he hurled himself up the stairs, which had never seemed so many before as more shots rang out, accompanied by shouts and thumps on the floor above. Dear God, he hoped he wasn't too late...

The sitting room door was open, thank heaven; Lestrade peeked cautiously around the frame and felt a rush of relief on seeing Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson taking cover behind the settee, both seemingly unhurt... but where was the gunman?

_Crack!_

All three men jumped at the sound, but this time Lestrade had seen where it was coming from, finally noticing the savoury aroma that hung in the air. Mrs. Hudson's ash shovel was sitting in the glowing embers of the fireplace, full of chestnuts, a handful of which had already exploded open. Shielding his face with his arms, Lestrade strode straight over to the fireplace, ignoring the warning calls from the other two; grabbed the coal scuttle and emptied it onto the floor, cigars and all, then slammed it straight down over the shovel, two seconds before another shiny, brown time bomb went off.

"Well, gentlemen..." he said in grim amusement as he straightened up, "a pleasure as always, but I think I'd best be getting along now."

Mr. Holmes got up slowly, face redder than the Inspector had ever seen it, followed even more slowly by Dr. Watson, who was rubbing his knee and wincing. "Lestrade..." The detective fell silent, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked around the fragment-covered room.

"He _means_ 'thank you'," the doctor said, elbowing his friend in the ribs with a pointed Look. "And now we know what happens when someone forgets to cut crosses in the chestnut shells, _don't we_?"

_Clang!_

Mr. Holmes mumbled something Lestrade couldn't catch, then gave the Yarder an odd look. "But, ah, to what _did_ we owe this singular pleasure, Inspector?"

Lestrade shook his head, turning to leave. "Never mind, it'll keep." His colleagues had already faced enough peril for one evening, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't even set foot in here yet...

* * *

_From Wordwielder – Roast Chestnuts_


	16. Blaze of Glory

_From silvermouse – Burned to death by a candle_

* * *

"I say, Holmes, have a care! Oh... too late. Poor devil..."

"Watson, your compassion for all God's creatures is truly noble, even spiders, but it's the human race I am most concerned with at present. If we don't find out soon who has been dipping firecrackers in wax and selling them as penny candles, the next Christmas tree fire could well be deadly!"

* * *

(Part 2 in chapter 27.)


	17. Shaken

_From silvermouse – Patient_

* * *

(Part 2 of the Starlock thread, sequel to Chapter 11.)

"Xuuf Mia."

Senator Moriarty looked up from his paperwork, eyebrows raised, but smiling. "Sherlock, my boy! This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Is it?" Sherlock's voice was hard, cold, in stark contrast with the fire searing his insides. All this time... how _could_ he not have realised long before?

"Well... perhaps not entirely," Moriarty allowed, gesturing at the chair before the desk. "Won't you be seated?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You know why I'm here."

Moriarty's smile was no less pleasant, but his eyes held a faint gleam of amusement. "Indeed... but do you, I wonder?"

"I know Xuuf Mia is one of the chief contributors to your campaign for the Chancellorship." Sherlock's lip curled. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't find that out?"

"On the contrary, dear boy, I was certain you would, given time." Moriarty's look became oddly reproachful. "Although I had expected you to make the connection several months earlier – a trifle disappointing."

"My humblest apologies!" Sherlock snorted, executing a mocking half-bow. "Ought I to be grateful for your faith in my abilities?"

"You were once, as I recall."

Sherlock's lips tightened, the faint paternal note in Moriarty's voice making him feel sick. "I _trusted_ you..."

"And now you believe it was misplaced?" Moriarty shook his head slowly. "Do consider carefully, Sherlock. Have I ever acted in anything less than your best interests... or the Republic's?"

"Best interests! When you've violated one of the Republic's founding principles?!"

"By consorting with the criminal underworld, you mean? Dear boy, have you really so little understanding of how a government operates – yes, even our own exalted democracy." Moriarty turned towards the window, hands clasped behind him, gazing out over the endless flow of traffic. "Interacting with the less respectable members of society is neither shameful nor praiseworthy in itself, Sherlock – it is a necessary and logical means to an end. As a politician, I have a duty to promote cooperation and tolerance in our society, at every level."

"By accepting bribes?"

"By taking care not to alienate some extremely influential crime lords, who can appreciate that occasionally working alongside the law works to everyone's benefit." Seeing that Sherlock remained unconvinced, Moriarty went on: "Do you recall that ghastly episode in the Keyorin district last winter? The serial killer who forced his victims to..."

"I remember." Sherlock's response was sharper than he'd intended, but he had no desire to discuss the gruesome details of that particular case.

"Then no doubt you also recall that all attempts by the authorities, even with the aid of the Jedi, failed to bring this madman to justice. It was only once the Jedi Order had persuaded the Hutts to take a keener interest in the matter..."

That the killer had turned up, or rather face down, in the lower levels, having apparently suffered the same fate as his victims... Sherlock shivered.

Moriarty's smile was tinged with sympathy. "Not one of the Order's proudest moments, in your opinion?"

"The end... hardly justified the means." The murderer should have been brought to stand trial, serve as a reassurance that the justice system still operated. _Even if it doesn't?_

"Yet how many more lives would have been lost if only the 'Light Side' of our civilization had been concerned with the suffering of others? A greater good was served that day, Sherlock, though I quite understand your scepticism on the matter."

Sherlock didn't answer – he had none to give. _Could_ Moriarty be right? If the Law alone wasn't enough... or the Code...

"But I fear I have now detained you far too long," Moriarty went on, as if he hadn't noticed the young Jedi's silence, "and sadly, I have duties of my own to attend to. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of your company when both of us are less preoccupied?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Perhaps." Knowing that things could never be the same between them saddened him deeply, but it would be an even greater pity if they could not continue to be civil to one another.

Once Holmes had left the office, Moriarty crossed to his desk and activated the holographic projector.

The wavering, blue-tinged image of a robed figure shimmered into existence. _"My lord?"_

"Inform the Temple operative that Stage Three has commenced."

 _"Yes, my lord."_ The image winked out.

Moriarty turned back to the window, allowing himself a faint smile of satisfaction. Young Holmes's faith in the Jedi was rapidly weakening, though he must be estranged much further before he would be ready to forsake the Light Side entirely... but Moriarty had always been a patient man.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I know this one isn't Christmas themed, but I did want to carry on the thread. Part 3 next chapter!


	18. Best Laid Plans

(Part 3 of Starlock, sequel to Chapter 17. This post took all the way to the end to fill the prompt, so that's where it is.)

* * *

Sherlock sank onto the bench outside the High Council chamber, too numb now even to shake. He was vaguely aware of someone sitting down beside him, but it just seemed so much easier to simply keep staring at the floor, that geometric pattern really was very hypnotic...

_"Sherlock Holmes, Jedi Knight... you stand accused of the crime of High Treason against the Jedi Order... that on the second Primeday of Month Seven, of this year 25,021, you committed espionage through the disclosure of certain confidential archives to individuals unknown within the Republic Senate; and that you did so knowingly, willfully and intentionally..."_

"Sherlock..."

_"Young Holmes, do you understand the charges being laid against you? Master Nusep?"_

_"He understands the charges, Master Dorn."_

"Padawan..."

_"You have told your defence counsel all the facts as you know them? Master Nusep?"_

_"He has, Master."_

"Sherlock, my Padawan, you must listen..."

_"And are you satisfied with the representation your defence counsel has given you?"_

_"...I am..." His voice had sounded so strange, as if belonging to a stranger._

_"Then you may withdraw."_

"Sherlock, they want your lightsaber."

Sherlock blinked, his old master's voice finally penetrating the fog in his brain. "What?"

"I'm meant to... ask you to surrender it."

A mirthless smile twisted Sherlock's lips, hearing his master's dry emphasis on the word 'ask'. "And if I refuse, it only strengthens their case against me." He took the metal tube off his belt, weighing it thoughtfully in both hands. He'd never really liked the damn thing, anyhow. To a street orphan who knew the value of a light touch, and who felt much more at home with more... delicate tools, a blade of glowing light that could only ever deal damage or deflect a blaster bolt had always seemed dreadfully theatrical, not to mention crude.

"Well... if I must." He handed the weapon over with a careless shrug. "They can keep it after the verdict as well, for all I care."

"They intend to." Nusep shook his equinoid head sadly as Sherlock gave him a searching look. "Sherlock, I am so sorry... I did everything I could... but this trial was only ever a formality. The Council had already passed judgement before you set foot in that chamber."

Sherlock felt the blood draining from his face. "What?"

"It seems your association with the Senate makes you the perfect scapegoat."

" _My_ association?!" He could easily have explained his recent avoidance of Senator Moriarty, but it had seemed... dishonourable, somehow; and Sherlock doubted he'd have been believed, in any case. "Plenty of other Jedi have..."

"But none are so closely connected with one of the front-runners for the Chancellorship." The old Svivreni laid a sympathetic four-fingered hand on his former pupil's shoulder. "There will be a full covert inquiry once your sentence has been pronounced, I promise you that... but until I can prove beyond a doubt who the real traitor is, you are to be officially expelled from the Order."

Despite half-expecting that, Sherlock's insides still twisted at hearing the words out loud... then tilted his head as he registered the odd phrasing. "And... _un_ officially?"

"They will place you on probation, most likely."

Sherlock gave a bitter bark of laughter. "Probation... expulsion... what's the difference? I'll still have to leave the Temple! Conceal my powers, be shunned by all other Jedi – not that _that_ will make any great change..."

"All, my Padawan?" The Svivreni's gruff voice suddenly sounded kinder than it ever had before.

A faint flush crept over Sherlock's cheeks, looking awkwardly back down at the floor. "No..." he murmured, "I... suppose not..."

"Of course, you have without doubt been the most abominably stubborn, infuriating apprentice I ever chose to burden myself with..."

Sherlock was about to respond in kind, then stared as his brain caught up with his mouth. Nusep had... _volunteered_ to train him – why?! _And_ just as he was due to be made a permanent member of the Council...

"But be that as it may, youngling... you have _never_ been the disappointment you believed you were – not to me." And dazed as he was, Sherlock knew that this was the closest his old master would ever come to putting into words the pride glowing in those large, dark eyes.

"...you honour me, Master," he said finally, voice soft with regret – one scale falling from his eyes had taken another in its wake. "And I shall look forward to the day we meet again." He rose from his seat and bowed deeply. "But I ask only that you seek out this traitor for the sake of the Order and the Republic, rather than mine."

"Sherlock?"

The disgraced Jedi smiled sadly. "Pray convey my... gratitude to the Council, but I will not have them exert themselves on my behalf. Effective immediately... I am resigning from the Order."

Nusep frowned deeply, mouth opening to protest, then slowly nodded as he saw the determination in Sherlock's face, his brow clearing. "So. A new journey begins. Go, then." A brusque parting from anyone else, but Svivreni believed it was bad luck to say 'goodbye' in any language.

Sherlock stepped closer as Nusep raised his left hand, fingers spread in the tradition of his people; echoing the gesture, Sherlock pressed his palm to the Svivreni's, a lump in his throat. "I go," he answered hoarsely, then turned and walked swiftly away, forcing himself not to look back.

* * *

"Chancellor? They're waiting for you."

"Very well." Supreme Chancellor James Moriarty stood and straightened his robes of investure, looking around his old office for what he fully intended to be the last time. The new Pelagian ambassador would, after all, be petitioning him for appointments in future. There was so much to be done...

Gliding sedately towards the door, Moriarty paused as a thought struck him, and turned to his aide. "Has there been any fresh news from the Jedi Temple?"

"No, Chancellor. Kenit Nusep still denies all knowledge of Holmes's whereabouts to the Council, and they cannot accuse him of disobeying orders, as he was merely instructed to retrieve Holmes's lightsaber, not prevent him from leaving before the final pronouncement. A regrettable oversight, but either way, they have what they wanted."

"Indeed..." A faint crease between Moriarty's brows was the only indication of his acute displeasure, although most of it was directed at himself. He had completely failed to foresee this new development, naïvely expecting that the disgraced and destitute Jedi would succeed in conquering his pride and beg his former friend – his only friend! – to help clear his name. Instead the boy had, for the first and probably the last time, complied exactly with the spirit of the Jedi Code: cast off every tie to his former life, and walked away with nothing but the clothes he stood up in.

Still, one simply couldn't help but admire the boy's courage, misapplied though it might be; and now there was little for Moriarty to do, except to wait for Holmes to reveal his whereabouts. The Chancellor felt quite certain that he would do so, in due course...

* * *

Sherlock silently cursed his growling stomach, nostrils flaring at the delicious scents from the nearby produce stall. Mandalorian oranges had always been a weakness of his, and he wasn't leaving the market without one – the stallkeeper would never miss it. After much practice, hunger making a superb teacher, his thieving... survival technique was now flawless.

"Spare a credit, friend?" he coughed, a dirty rag pressed to his mouth – the simplest disguises were usually the best.

" _Get away from my fruit!_ " the Harch chittered, upper arms waving at him in shooing motions. It was too easy: a universally rude gesture from Sherlock as he turned away, and several oranges fell off the stall at the arachnid's feet. As the merchant bent to retrieve the fruit, a single orange from the far side of the stall quietly floated into the air and inside Sherlock's shabby robe. His mouth watered in anticipation of the treat, just a little further...

" _Stop, thief!_ " Damn! Sherlock had forgotten a Harch's vision was monocular, it had only taken _one_ eye off its wares! And the other stallkeepers were starting to move in, expressions even uglier than usual. Definitely time to leave.

Clamping down on his rising alarm, Sherlock swept his arm around in a half circle, scattering most of the fruit and vegetables off the surrounding stalls, and turned to run... only to collide headfirst with someone's remarkably solid fist coming the other way. Sprawling backwards, Sherlock's stolen robe fell open, revealing his Jedi overtunic... and the empty utility belt around his waist.

A collective gasp went up from the growing crowd. "Rogue Jedi!" Oh, _hell_...

Sherlock staggered to his feet, gathering all his remaining strength for a desperate leap to the nearest balcony, but the mob was already upon him. Pain was quick to follow, blows raining in on him from all sides, he couldn't concentrate enough to push them off... Then suddenly the nearest pair of legs vanished, followed by another, then another, the rest falling back until all that was left was a pair of scuffed black boots – military issue, Sherlock blearily recognised – standing guard at his head.

"Enough." The voice was quiet but cold, ringing with unmistakeable promise of the repercussions if disobeyed.

" _Stay out of this, bone-picker, he's ours!_ " The Harch merchant's voice didn't hold much conviction, however.

"Was," the voice calmly corrected. A hand slid into Sherlock's pocket and removed the squashed remains of his stolen orange. "And since it was clearly one of you that made it impossible for him to return your wares in pristine condition, I suggest you all decide among you which one ought to pay up." Two hands took hold of the front of Sherlock's tunic as the stallkeepers began to argue among themselves, and lifted him effortlessly, slinging the Jedi's arm over his shoulders. Sherlock strove to focus on his rescuer's face as the darkness descended, but all he could see was a dark blue blur, and a pair of glowing red eyes...

* * *

_From Domina Temporis – A food fight_

A/N: Once again, not exactly Christmas themed, although I personally think oranges are very Christmassy! =P Final Starlock chapter next post.


	19. Better With Two

_From Hades Lord of the Dead – Write a romance fic focussing on Mrs Hudson._

* * *

(Part 4 of Starlock, sequel to Chapter 18.)

Sherlock cracked his eyes open slowly, and found himself staring at an extremely low ceiling; he was wrapped in blankets and lying in a sleep pod. A faint murmur of voices sounded from outside, but he wasn't in the least inclined to get up and investigate. Jedi did tend to heal quicker than most, but everything still hurt. His worst wounds had been dressed, though, and there was a pungent smell of ointment in the tiny room. Somehow, he doubted his mysterious rescuer intended him harm after all this. He didn't much care right now, anyway... he was too sore to care... and much too tired...

* * *

When Sherlock finally felt recovered enough to get out of bed, he emerged unsteadily from the sleeping cubicle into what appeared to be some kind of medical facility – the unofficial kind, from the look of things. He didn't have long to observe, however, before the door slid open, and a blue-skinned, black-haired humanoid walked in, with the glowing red eyes he remembered seeing just before passing out. Sherlock blinked in astonishment: his rescuer was a Chiss. He'd never seen one before in person, and he certainly never would have expected to find one down here!

"Ah, good, you're up." The Chiss looked Sherlock up and down critically, expression one of grudging respect. "I'll say this for you Jedi, you heal fast enough."

Sherlock bristled at the thinly veiled tone of contempt – Chiss might not be Force-sensitive themselves, but they needn't look down on those who were. "Most kind."

The Chiss shook his head at himself, one corner of his mouth turning up. "But here I am, putting you under the scanner, and we haven't even been introduced." After a split second's hesitation, he held out a hand gingerly. "Sabosen'joh'nuruodo. I know who you are."

Sherlock didn't bother to ask how, he was too busy trying to get his tongue around the mouthful of syllables as he took the offered hand carefully. "Sab-boss..."

"Core name Njohn," the Chiss sighed, pronouncing both n's separately. "But you might as well call me 'John', most people do."

Sherlock couldn't help smiling in sympathy at the resignation in the medic's voice. "It's an honour to meet you, Healer Njohn." His eyes twinkled as the Chiss's widened. "I'll say this for us Jedi, we learn fast enough."

Njohn was surprised into a huff of laughter, nodding in acknowledgement of the comeback. "I suppose I deserved that. Apologies, Master Holmes. I'll be the first to admit that interracial relations aren't exactly my forte."

And that was what puzzled Sherlock more than anything else: Chiss were notoriously xenophobic, they only ever interacted with other species out of necessity... so _why_ was a Chiss ex-fighter pilot running a private clinic out of his home, in the lower levels of Coruscant, of all places?

"But you'll be hungry, I imagine." Njohn opened a cupboard and handed Sherlock a protein bar with an apologetic look. "I'm afraid this is the best I can do for the moment."

Sherlock accepted the field rations with a nod of thanks, realising guiltily as he did that he hadn't actually thanked the healer for... well, anything! Opening his mouth to do so, however, only earned him a raised hand, cutting him off. "Don't thank me, Sherlock Holmes, thank those who went before you. Eat."

* * *

Sherlock spent the remainder of the day at the clinic, mostly resting and making small talk with his host between patients, and gratefully exchanging his telltale Jedi clothing for a clean shirt and trousers. He had offered at first to withdraw to the other room during consultations, but Njohn told him not to trouble himself. "Most of them won't care, you don't look like the police. Besides, I can always use extra hands."

This became self-evident very quickly. More than once, Sherlock had to help the Chiss, no lightweight himself, to restrain a thrashing patient so that he could operate safely, or simply soothe a nervous friend or family member while Njohn got on with treatment. In the late afternoon, a comatose maintenance worker was carried in with severe plasma burns, and Sherlock didn't have to be a Jedi to see that there was little Njohn could do for the poor devil, except to give him a quick and painless exit. Face like a midnight-blue thundercloud, the healer then turned on those who had brought in the deceased and practically scorched the air with what he thought of their not taking him to an infirmary hours ago.

"Not that you can really blame them," Njohn sighed to Sherlock as the cowed technicians scuttled back out, massaging his temples wearily. "They go off shift early for any reason, there's plenty waiting to take their place." The Chiss shook his head and fetched a body bag. "Well, at least this one's family won't have to spend the pension on long term intensive care." Njohn's lips tightened on seeing Sherlock's revolted expression. "Why do you think these people come here, Jedi? The hospitals up top are all taxed by the Republic, and the crime lords sponsor the rest. This is one of the few clinics that doesn't charge folks their last credit just for a dermaseal."

"Not that you could, anyhow," Sherlock pointed out, expression clearing as he finally noticed what had been nagging at him all day. "You haven't installed a transaction terminal! Do you ever charge for your services?" He could see how that might be difficult, though: the Chiss had never really warmed to the concept of money, it was too impersonal.

Njohn shrugged. "Sometimes. I get the odd one who insists on paying in credits, no one likes taking charity. Barter works fine, of course – I help my patients, they return the favour. Speaking of which..." He nodded downwards at Sherlock's grumbling stomach, tossing the Jedi his cloak. "You sound like you've swallowed a reek. Come on, I know a place."

* * *

'A place' turned out to be a diner called Rosie's, surprisingly respectable-looking compared to the surrounding neighbourhood.

"John! Good to see you!" A gleaming copper waitress droid waved at the Chiss as they entered the diner, rolling up on a single wheel. "Where have you been hiding?"

"Hello, Rosie," Njohn smiled. "Dodging the auditors, you know how it is."

Sherlock blinked – _this_ was Rosie? He'd heard about droids being freed by grateful owners, everyone had, but he'd never heard of one running its own establishment!

He only realised he was staring when Njohn nudged him in the ribs. "I was just telling my associate here he simply has to try your famous meatlump stew."

"Two bowls, then?" the waitdroid said brightly. "Coming right up!"

Sherlock eyed his 'associate' dubiously as Rosie whizzed off to the kitchen, but followed Njohn to a corner booth without comment. The smell in here was a little odd, but not unpleasant, a promising sign.

"So... Rosie is...?"

"R0Z1, and yes, a free droid – well, sort of." Njohn's eyes gave nothing away, but Sherlock still got the impression of mischief radiating off the healer. "She and her former master have a much more, er, amicable contract these days."

"Meaning?"

"They're married." Njohn grinned as Sherlock's mouth fell open. "And before you say it, she proposed."

"That's... they... how...?"

Njohn quirked an amused eyebrow at Sherlock's red-faced stammerings. "This from the man who was helping me remove Spiner quills from a Geelan's rear end earlier?"

If Sherlock was honest with himself, this sudden prudish streak had come as a surprise to him, too. "But... how do they...?"

"Haven't asked, never will," Njohn said quickly. "And I don't imagine poor Castor's up for much in that department, anyhow – the man _is_ almost seventy." He patted the top pocket of his tunic. "Hence my dining here for free. Rosie can't get the herbs she needs for him through, er, conventional means."

"Weak heart?" Sherlock murmured sympathetically.

Njohn shook his head sadly. "Miner's lung. Burning these and breathing the smoke helps, but it only treats the symptoms."

"My audio processors are overheating!" Rosie trilled, rolling up with two steaming bowls on a tray. "Not talking about me, are we?"

"Actually, John was just telling me about you and Castor," Sherlock said with a shy smile, seeing Njohn hesitate. "My best wishes to you both."

"Oh!" The droid wheeled a little half-circle, ducking her head – Sherlock had the sudden sense that if Rosie could have blushed, she would have. "Yes, th-thank you, that's... very kind..."

"Rosie?" Njohn frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing at all, everything's fust jine!" Rosie burbled hastily, unloading the tray so fast that the brimming stew bowls slopped over onto the tabletop.

"Now, Rosie, you know you can't lie, your speech circuits overload," Njohn said gently, putting a hand on the droid's trembling arm. "Is Castor getting worse?"

It shouldn't have been possible for a droid to fold in on itself without even moving, but Rosie managed it, a rusty-sounding sniff escaping her voice box. "Well, I d-don't think... he'll be needing those l-leaves any more..."

"...oh no..." Njohn's eyes widened, voice suddenly much sharper. "Rosie, where is he? Where did you take your husband?"

"...O-our Lady of Perpetual Atonement..."

Njohn groaned, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, Rosie! How much did you give them?"

"... the deed to the diner..." Rosie hung her head as the two men stared at her, appalled. "Th-they promised they'd only collect if... if..."

"I'm sure they did." The healer's mouth was a hard, thin line. "Rosie, I'm so sorry... but we've been through all this before. Your husband simply isn't going to..."

"Have a much better chance of recovery than this," Sherlock interrupted hastily, kicking Njohn's foot under the table – the Chiss really was going to have to work on his bedside manner. "I'm sure they'll do all they can to help him." He picked up his spoon and pulled his bowl of stew closer, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Rosie, this looks delicious."

"You're welcome," Rosie sniffed, a watery smile audible. "Do come back again – while we're still open..."

Njohn nodded, holding his peace until the waitdroid had rolled slowly back to the kitchen. "All right, let's hear it."

Sherlock tasted his stew cautiously, relaxing when he found it edible – no, more than that, this was the best food he'd had in weeks. "I gather you're familiar with whoever runs this particular facility?"

"Our Lady of Perpetual Atonement? It's sponsored by the Pyke syndicate, narcotics dealers." Njohn dug viciously into his own stew. "And now they have the deed to Rosie's diner..."

"You think they'll use it as a distribution point?"

"Oh, without a doubt," Njohn growled. "The neighbourhood was already going downhill, but this will really take the brakes off."

Sherlock nodded slowly, finishing his meal in silence. As the pair walked back outside, it suddenly hit him: he was now almost right back to where he'd started when he first wandered down here. Njohn had been incredibly kind, far kinder than he had to be, but the healer had so many others depending on him here, and Sherlock would do well enough on his own now... especially now that he had a specific purpose in mind.

He turned to the Chiss, holding out his hand, only to find Njohn standing with his arms folded, eyebrows raised. "Well, Njohn," he began. "I can't tell you..."

"...what the bloody hell you think you're doing?" Njohn finished dryly. "You don't honestly imagine you're going to pull off a lunatic scheme like the one you're planning without someone to watch your back, do you?"

Sherlock had to smile, but shook his head firmly. "You have patients queueing, my friend – and a dead technician still on the table, don't forget. His family..."

"Can wait a few more hours."

"Njohn, I can't ask you to abandon the people who need you the most..."

Njohn snorted. "Oh, absolutely! They're all in dire need of a healer who can't even convince a waitress droid that her human husband isn't going to live forever..."

Sherlock blinked at the sudden outburst, understanding dawning. "You don't have to, Njohn... She knows it already." Stepping closer, he laid a sympathetic hand on the dismal healer's shoulder. "But be honest: if it was someone you loved, wouldn't you do the same as Rosie? Fight for every extra minute before you had to let them go?"

The Chiss gave him an odd look. "Fighting to keep your family? Doesn't that go against your precious Jedi Code?"

"Oh, very much so," Sherlock answered with a shrug. "But a bit less of the 'your precious', if you don't mind."

"...you're really not going back, are you?"

Sherlock snorted. "To what? A stagnant, dogmatic bunch of bureaucrats? They're even worse than the Senate!" At least governments _could_ evolve...

Njohn nodded, gesturing in what Sherlock had to assume was the right direction. "Well, if we're going..."

_We_. That one small word suddenly made Sherlock Holmes feel unaccountably cheerful. "Yes... I suppose we are."

"Can I ask one thing, though?"

"Fire away."

"You're not going to keep using those disgusting powers of yours, are you?"

"Mind your own business."

"That's a 'yes', then."

"What are you worried about? Force tricks only work on the weak-minded."

"You could be lying about that."

"Well, it's obviously not working, then, is it?"

"Ah- _ha_!"

"Give me strength..."

* * *

A/N: So what happened to Mrs. Hudson, you ask? Well, when I first got this prompt, it honestly never occurred to me to write about the woman when she was younger. Romance, after all, isn't only for the young; given the choice, I'd rather read about an older couple in love. Plus this AU was begging for a Mrs. Hudson-type character, so I decided to turn this post into Jedi Sherlock's first genuine case. *hugs Rosie*

Many thanks to all those who assisted in getting the details right, particularly Eric Trautmann (Star Wars author) and Aleine Skyfire. And to those wanting more, head on over to Wholmes Productions, on AO3 or FFN, where Skyfire and I are starting Sherlock's journey from the very beginning! =)


	20. While Shepherds Washed Their Socks

_From I'm Nova – Freudian slip._

* * *

Holmes tipped the station porter generously, then hastily climbed up into the hansom, rubbing his gloved hands to warm them. Bath was even colder than London at this time of year, he was already regretting accepting this late case. "Well, come on, Watson! You wrote the address down for our hotel, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, just a moment." Watson dug his notebook out of his coat pocket, turned to the right page, then burst out laughing. "Oh dear!"

"What is it?"

"No, don't look, Holmes, it's too embarrassing." Watson leaned up and called to the driver, "Sheridan House, 14 North Parade, my good man."

But Holmes had seized his chance, and the notebook, fending Watson off as he scanned the page. "14 North _Pole_?"

"Well, I did write it in rather a hurry, if you recall," Watson grinned sheepishly.

Holmes snickered, patting his blushing friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Watson, we should be back in London long before Father Christmas arrives."

* * *

A/N: Inspired by a street sign in my home town. 'North Pde' does look awfully like 'North Pole' from a distance.


	21. For Whom The Bell Tolls

_From Wordwielder – Ghosts_ (Warning: this chapter may cause mild déjà vu.)

* * *

Christmas Eve, 1890.

Professor James Moriarty seldom visibly lost his temper, but the report he had just received from the Hotel Cosmopolitan seemed an excellent reason to make an exception. Still, morale within the Firm was important, particularly at this time of year; thus he took care to allow the nervous underling to leave his office before slowly crumpling the report into the smallest wad he could manage, picturing himself crushing a certain treacherous agent's windpipe. James Ryder was going to wish he had never been born...

The Countess of Morcar would never have suspected that her treasured blue carbuncle had been stolen if the maid hadn't acted too early, forcing Ryder to carry out the theft before the replica was ready. And then the damned fool had hidden the stone inside a _goose_ , of all things! It was enough to drive a man to despair, it really was... and most galling of all, Holmes's meddling had made it impossible for Moriarty to salvage the operation without openly revealing his hand in the affair. The boy had foiled his plans yet again, and he most likely wasn't even aware of it!

Frustration safely vented for the moment, Moriarty began to penitently smooth the crumpled sheets back out, although he was still extremely angry – not least because he was well aware of where most of the blame could be laid: himself. Holmes had not appeared to be any kind of threat to the Firm when the detective first became aware of its existence, but casual scrutiny had quickly turned to what Holmes's biographer might have termed an _idée fixe_ ; and if Moriarty were honest with himself, the fascination was wholly mutual. His own admiration for Holmes's abilities seemed to have evolved into an odd kind of paternal indulgence, leading him to let down his guard to an unpardonable extent. And here was the result! Respect for an enemy notwithstanding, Holmes was rapidly becoming an intolerable nuisance, and Moriarty feared that drastic measures would soon have to be implemented. The question was: which measures?

Neither Holmes nor his older brother were the sort to be bought off, quite the opposite. Mycroft was also a cornerstone of the British government, and while Moriarty was all for the strategic removal of an opponent's pieces, one did not overturn the board entirely in a fit of pique. Besides, collateral damage when dealing with any threat was shockingly bad form, which unfortunately meant that striking at Holmes through Dr. Watson or his wife was also out of the question.

Moriarty sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples – he could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. There seemed only two viable options remaining. He could either eliminate Holmes alone, which, short of a direct assassination, would be nightmarishly complicated... or he could simply allow the detective to destroy himself. That dreadful addiction of his, how often had Dr. Watson warned Holmes that it would one day be the death of him? And to deprive Holmes of interesting work, all Moriarty's agents had to do was to work less themselves! A year, say, with no significant cases to speak of, and Holmes could easily turn to the needle once too often out of sheer _ennui_.

The cost to Moriarty himself would be considerable, of course, but only in the short term. Sometimes the Professor wondered whether Holmes calling him the Napoleon of Crime had really been intended as a compliment; Napoleon had ultimately been defeated by Wellington, the Duke being as masterful in retreat as in his advances. Moriarty's greatest challenge here would lie in convincing his subordinates to view this strategic withdrawal as a mere precursor to winning the war, rather than as an outright surrender. Still, he felt confident that they would quickly come round, especially once they knew that their own salaries were in no danger!

* * *

Colonel Moran shook his head, brows knitted in something dangerously close to a scowl. "They won't like it, sir, any of them."

"I do not require them to like the decision, Colonel," Moriarty replied pointedly, "merely abide by it." The adjoinder 'especially you' went unspoken. "My door is always open, of course, should anyone wish to discuss specific concerns."

Moran snorted. He knew as well as Moriarty that there would be very few personal interviews after the committee meeting, if any. "When will you tell them, Boxing Day?"

"No, the day after will do well enough." Moriarty exchanged the files he'd been reading for the report Moran had just brought in. "Which reminds me: roster a skeleton staff here for the 26th, no more than half a day apiece. Double wages, as per usual."

Moran tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Yes, sir."

Moriarty tutted, resisting the urge to sigh. Why the man should think that his supposed generosity stemmed from anything besides sound logic... He had always taken care to reward the loyalty of his employees, and those prepared to spend time away from their families during the holiday for the good of the Empire were compensated appropriately.

"But if I may make so bold, Professor, what are _you_ still doing here?"

The Professor arched a sardonic eyebrow at the accusing tone. "I shall ignore what I can only assume was a rhetorical question and ask, against my better judgement, where you think I should be."

"Well, it is Christmas, sir – all right, not till tomorrow, but..."

"And what has Christmas to do with it? I should still have work to do, Colonel, were we in the middle of an August Bank Holiday."

Moran started to reply, when both men were startled by the sound of a child's voice outside the office window, raised in a hearty, if not entirely tuneful, rendition of 'Good King Wenceslas.'

Moran snickered at Moriarty's eloquent expression. "Well, you've got to admire the lad's enthusiasm."

"If not the volume," Moriarty answered tartly. "Very well, you may reward him for his zeal, Moran, then speed him on his way."

"You're all heart, sir," the Colonel smirked, strolling out of the office.

"What an appalling notion!" Moriarty sniffed. "However did you come by it?"

Moran merely laughed.

* * *

Gradually, the Firm's headquarters emptied as the hour grew later and the evening murkier, two of the bolder staff even daring to knock at the office door and wish their employer a merry Christmas before hastily withdrawing. Moriarty acknowledged the sentiment with a curt nod, then returned to his paperwork.

_Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the clock on the mantelpiece, except that it had been specifically chosen by Moriarty for its inability to chime the hour. Let it also be borne in mind that Moriarty had seen it, night and morning, for as long as his headquarters had been established here. And then let any man explain, if he can, how it happened that as the church clock in the distance began to chime the eleventh hour, Moriarty heard the mantel clock behind him begin to sound in sympathy..._

_'All through this hour,_   
_Lord, be my guide...'_

Moriarty was not a man given naturally to flights of fancy, although he was mildly surprised for a moment. Turning calmly in his seat, he looked up at the clock, thinking that perhaps some wag among the staff, Moran most likely, had stealthily exchanged one timepiece for another as a joke.

_'That by Thy power_   
_No foot shall slide...'_

But no, it was the very same clock which had always sat there, no mistaking that singular crack in the glass... or the ghostly face that suddenly appeared in the place of the dial as the strokes began to ring out. It was a face Moriarty knew well, though one he had not seen, nor expected to see, in forty-five long years... the late Professor Cecil Beckett, M.A.

Eyes fixed upon this inexplicable phenomenon, Moriarty rose slowly from his seat, but even as he did so, the vision, if such it might be called, faded away on the last stroke of eleven as swiftly as it had first materialised.

To say that Moriarty was not startled would be untrue. Nevertheless, he advanced unshrinkingly towards the mantel and took the clock down for close inspection, albeit with a moment's hesitation. What he had expected to find, he could not have said; certainly, nothing unusual revealed itself, without or within – and yet... Moriarty was conscious of a rising revulsion, the steady _tick, tick, tick_ vibrating against his skin as the hands moved steadily onwards all at once putting him morbidly in mind of a heartbeat... and which sounded eerily loud in the sudden, deafening silence. Even the fire had ceased to crackle and snap, its heat mysteriously absent, though the leaping flames continued in their dance, the temperature in the room dropping far faster than might be considered natural.

"Hm..." Moriarty bestowed a grim smile on the spot where his old mentor's face had briefly appeared, replaced the clock, walked back to the desk, and reseated himself, hands folded in front of him. He hadn't long to wait; less than a minute later, a soft yet oddly reverberating knock sounded from the other side of the door.

"Enter."

The commanded entrance would doubtless have been most impressive, Professor Beckett's ghost passing through the heavy door as though it were morning mist, if Moriarty had only troubled to turn down the gas beforehand. As it was, Cecil Beckett looked as pale and incongruous under the bright light as a candle flame in the noonday sun, blinking uncertainly at his calmly expectant host through the same half-moon spectacles he had worn in life. Moriarty found himself idly wondering why a phantom would have need of such things, but then surmised that it would be typical of Beckett to have retained them even in death through sheer force of habit.

Aside from his new translucent state, the elderly professor looked exactly as Moriarty remembered seeing him the last time, right down to the neat bullet hole in his chest, although the bloodstains on his shirt and waistcoat were dark silver rather than crimson. Beckett nodded ponderously, as if sensing where his former protégé's gaze lingered, giving Moriarty what was probably intended to be a chilling stare of accusation. It didn't work.

"Professor Beckett, good evening," Moriarty nodded, gesturing invitingly for his ethereal guest to be seated. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You've not been expecting me?" Beckett's echoing voice was much the same as well, though perhaps a little more querulous than before – Moriarty had no doubt it was justified.

"I cannot conceive why I should have."

"Not at any time, these last forty-five years?"

"If you are referring to your _execution_ after my forced resignation from Oxford –" That bullet had been neither more nor less than a just reckoning; "I did not regret it then, and I fail to see now why I should have allowed it to weigh heavily upon my conscience."

"Conscience!" the ghost wailed suddenly. "Do not speak of such things, blind Man, to one who has sat at your elbow every Christmas Eve since my murder, mourning for what remained of the promising young man I had been proud to call friend and colleague!"

"Was it a relief to have less to mourn over every year?" Moriarty responded dryly. "Perhaps you should have mourned instead for yourself, for what _you_ had failed to do."

The ghost shook his head, haunted eyes beseeching Moriarty's understanding. "You had made too many enemies in high places, my boy, I could not help you!"

"Without sharing in my disgrace, perhaps not. And yet there were plenty who spoke louder and longer in my defence than you did, colleagues in whom I had considerably less faith than your good self." Moriarty waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in his chair. "However, I do believe you never answered my original question." He highly doubted that Beckett had waited this long to manifest in his presence merely to dredge up one sordid incident. "Why have you come here tonight?"

"To warn you, James Moriarty. Men's courses foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from..."

"The ends will change, yes, I know," Moriarty sighed. "And you wish me to do what, exactly? Break down and make some sobbing, heartfelt vow to renounce my wicked ways?" He was having great difficulty keeping a straight face at the hopeful look in his former colleague's eyes. "My dear Beckett, pray do not expend your pity upon those who neither deserve nor desire it. I am under no illusions as to what Fate awaits me when I finally depart this mortal coil – as it doubtless awaits those who profess to condemn my efforts to leave the world in a slightly better condition than when I entered it."

"You stand fast, then?" Moriarty had seldom beheld a sight more pitiable than the disconsolate spirit in front of him.

"Absolutely." Then before Beckett could reply, he added kindly, "But it has been, to my great astonishment, most refreshing to talk with you again, Professor – quite like old times. Perhaps in future, we might..."

The ghost shook his head resolutely, chin jutting. "I came here tonight to warn you, my boy, and warn you I shall: that the fate you believe to be inevitable need not be so. But since you will not be convinced by these poor words of mine, the message must be conveyed by other ministers. You will be haunted by three more spirits before this night is over."

"Three!" Moriarty's eyebrows shot up at that. "My dear Beckett, I hardly think..."

"Without their visits," Beckett pressed on as if he hadn't heard, "you cannot hope to forsake the path you tread. Expect the first when the bell tolls one."

"Beckett, I warn you..." And Moriarty had no sooner said those words than he recognised them for the pure bluster that they were; what could a spirit possibly have to fear from a mere mortal, even the Napoleon of Crime himself?

"Expect the second and third thereafter." The gleam in Beckett's eye as he rose from his chair told Moriarty that he had also recognised, and was quietly relishing, his former colleague's frustration. "Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

And with that, the confoundedly smug ghost floated back the way he had come, leaving a fuming Moriarty searching his memory index for any clergymen on the Firm's payroll who could perform an exorcism on short notice.

* * *

A/N: I would just like to state for the record that yes, I am cribbing heavily from 'A Christmas Carol', both prose and dialogue! The details of Moriarty's past and criminal empire, however, come courtesy of Aleine Skyfire, whose marvellously detailed headcanon on the Professor and Moran can be found in full in her story 'I, Moran: Untold Tales from Conduit Street' on FFN. Please go check it out!

For any purists out there, I know Watson states clearly that the Blue Carbuncle case doesn't start until two days after Christmas, but I just couldn't resist playing around with the dates for the sake of the story. Hey, it's not like Watson never does it. ;) Part 2 next chapter!


	22. Future Concerns

_From KnightFury – Cooped up_

* * *

(Sequel to Chapter 21.)

Moriarty looked about him for the Ghost of Christmas Present as the invisible clock began to strike twelve, and was grimly pleased to see that the Spirit had vanished – and not before time, either!

It hadn't taken him long after Professor Beckett's departure to decide that if _three_ spirits were determined to pay him a visit, even the most devout priest wouldn't delay them forever; he might as well simply get it over with. The first Ghost had been the dullest of the three thus far: Moriarty had absolutely no interest in reviewing his past, everything of importance was already catalogued in his memory. Besides, the sanctimonious little prig changing form all the time was, to Moriarty's way of thinking, merely showing off – you couldn't tell him that a being that powerful couldn't choose a single shape and keep it if it wanted to!

He'd been slightly more interested in seeing the present, thinking that a different perspective of his Empire or of Holmes might be helpful, but he had been sadly disappointed in that, too. The Ghost of Christmas Present was revoltingly cheerful when it first appeared, and laughed far more heartily than any sane person ought. And the visions he'd been shown... did the Spirit honestly think that Moriarty's time on earth had been wasted? His donations to charity, his efforts to encourage reforms within society – ones that would actually work! – _and_ he had always done his best to ensure that his employees and their families were provided for: fed, clothed, sheltered, even educated. If Holmes would only allow himself to see the harm that would be done by destroying Moriarty's network, perhaps they could have reached a compromise. As for the means used to achieve said ends, that was ultimately between Moriarty and whatever Judgement awaited him _after_ death.

Well, only one Spirit left now, thank God. Lifting up his eyes as the last stroke of twelve ceased to vibrate, Moriarty beheld a solemn phantom drifting towards him, dressed in a hooded black robe so that all he could see was one thin, almost skeletal hand.

"Good evening," Moriarty greeted politely, as he had done with the other two, resisting the urge to carp by saying 'Good morning', which it most likely was. Moran would be pleased: Moriarty intended to spend most of Christmas Day in bed after this. "The Ghost of Christmas Future, I presume?"

The folds of the Spirit's hood contracted for a moment, as if it had nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, lead on, then." He heartily wished that the Ghosts could have dispensed with all the melodrama, but at least this one seemed to be a Spirit of few words.

The phantom turned silently and drifted away, with Moriarty following, the Spirit's shadow almost seeming to carry him along in its wake. He had to admit, this spectre intrigued him far more than any other he'd seen. What kind of world would it show him?

* * *

_"All that I have to say has already crossed your mind."_ Two men sat facing each other in an unfamiliar sitting room.

_"Then possibly my answer has crossed yours."_

_"You stand fast?"_ Moriarty half-smiled to hear his future self use the very same turn of phrase that Beckett had used with him.

_"Absolutely."_ Sherlock Holmes spoke boldly, but Moriarty could still see the delicious glimmer of fear in his opponent's eyes.

The future Professor reached into his pocket, Holmes raising his pistol from the table until he saw that Moriarty was merely bringing out his memorandum-book. _"You crossed my path on the 4th of January."_

The present Moriarty pricked his ears up at that! What the devil could he have been doing to invite Holmes's continued meddling in his affairs?

_"On the 23rd you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty."_

"What?" Moriarty thundered, completely forgetting in his wrath that these future shadows couldn't see or hear him. What in God's name had happened to all his carefully laid plans for temporary retirement? Was it possible that Holmes would fail to be deceived by the retreat, continuing in his dogged pursuit until Moriarty's criminal empire lay in ruins? "Spirit," he said angrily, turning to the silent figure beside him, "are these visions of things that _will_ happen, or merely things that _may_ happen?"

The Spirit gave no reply, and his future self was still in mid-lecture. _"You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realise. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden underfoot."_

"Fool!" Moriarty hissed viciously at himself. "You never should have let him live past Christmas!"

_"I am afraid,"_ the shadow Holmes said, rising, _"that in the pleasure of this conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me elsewhere."_

The shadow Moriarty also rose, shaking his head sadly. _"Well, well. It seems a pity, but I have done what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do nothing before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."_

"Heaven grant me patience!" Moriarty groaned. What had possessed his future self, thinking that Holmes would be overawed by such theatrics? And yet, as the shadow Moriarty turned and stalked out of the room, Moriarty was astounded to see Holmes's bravado desert him the moment his enemy was out of sight, collapsing back into his chair and passing a shaking hand over his face. Could it be...? Could Holmes actually be aware that his destruction was imminent, but was simply too proud to abandon the path he trod?

Moriarty turned excitedly to the Ghost. "More, Spirit, show me more! Let me see how the game will end!"

The Ghost spread its black robe before him for a moment like a wing, withdrawing it to reveal a very different scene: a thundering waterfall in the Swiss Alps, a treacherous cliff path... and two figures struggling desperately at the very end of it... _No!_

The breath left Moriarty in an instant, or he might well have echoed his own scream as his future shadow's foot came down on empty air, plummeting to his death in the maelstrom below... _"...no..."_ How _could_ it end this way?! Holmes... at the very last, his opponent had won...

He only became aware that he had sunk to his knees when the Spirit's hand brushed his shoulder, pointing insistently back to the waterfall. Moriarty shook his head wearily. "No more, Spirit... Take me back." But the hand remained outstretched, and Moriarty's dreary gaze eventually followed it, if only out of morbid curiosity. Then his eyes widened as he saw the new tableau: Holmes lying hidden on a ledge above the path as Dr. Watson frantically called his friend's name, voice growing thick with tears as hope was overtaken by despair.

Moriarty frowned, forgetting his own outrage momentarily; for all of Holmes's faults, he had never thought him capable of... oh. His eye was caught by movement above the falls, someone who had been watching the entire time.

"Moran." Moriarty watched in something akin to sympathy as the Colonel hurled stone after stone down on the escaping Holmes, Watson and the Swiss police long since departed. "My poor friend... He'll need this," he said, half to the Spirit, half to himself, as the scene changed rapidly to show Moran's dogged pursuit of Holmes across Europe, then Asia, finally coming full circle back to London. "Have your revenge, my dear fellow, and be at peace."

But Fate – and Holmes, it seemed – had other ideas. Moriarty watched tight-lipped as Moran was dragged away by Scotland Yard, his only worthy heir beyond the reach of any of the few agents still at large. Holmes had made a thorough job of the thing, yes indeed... Almost nothing remained of Moriarty's legacy, not even a tombstone!

Then gradually, Moriarty became aware of an underlying sound, a faint scratching noise that had, he finally realised, been there from the very beginning of these visions. A bitter smile twisted his lips as the Spirit showed him the source. "And Watson continues to write, of course... and thus Sherlock Holmes achieves immortality. The end."

But the Spirit pointed onwards, the scribbling sound from Watson's pen gradually evolving into the slow _tap-tap-ting!_ of a typewriting machine.

Moriarty sighed – what more could he possibly need to see? "Very well..."

And as they went on, the shelves of Watson's study suddenly stretched away out of sight, crammed to bursting with books, new titles by new authors... "'Hound of the _D'Urbervilles'?_ " Moriarty saw himself and Moran reimagined, a dark mirror of Holmes and Watson... then, as if that had been a signal, a cast of thousands stepped out from the shelves and saluted their predecessor: Fu Manchu, 'Gentleman' Johnny Marcone, Lex Luthor, Ernst Blofeld, Emperor Palpatine, Havelock Vetinari...

"Good heavens..." Moriarty shook his head in amazement as it became clear to him that his legacy, although not what he had envisioned, was still alive and well – that to be compared to 'the Napoleon of Crime' would be a back-handed compliment at worst, a badge of honour at best. "Is there more, Spirit?"

All at once, the Spirit seemed to hesitate, starting to draw back its bony hand, but Moriarty was relentless. "Show me!"

The Spirit reluctantly complied, this time showing Moriarty what the future held, not merely for the Empire, but for the entire planet... and Moriarty looked on in horror as mankind proceeded to all but devour itself, like the proverbial snake swallowing its own tail. Unbidden, a stray thought crossed the appalled Professor's mind: _When one tries to rise above Nature, one is liable to fall below it..._

"No!" Moriarty's face was pale, jaw and fists clenched. "All this progress cannot be for nothing, it _shall_ not! Go further!"

Somehow conveying wordlessly that it considered itself extremely ill-used, the Spirit obeyed; and finally, Moriarty recognised what he was searching for. "Yes... yes, that will suffice." He nodded in satisfaction, gesturing imperiously at the sullen Phantom. "You may now return me."

For the first time since his mantel clock had struck eleven, Moriarty felt a sudden chill, as the Spirit turned slowly and gave him a long, thoughtful look, as if it were thinking of refusing just on principle. Then it seemed to realise that the alternative was having this exasperating mortal loitering about indefinitely, using its powers as his own personal crystal ball.

A hasty wave of the Ghost's skeletal hand, and Moriarty abruptly found himself seated back at his office desk, blinking in the gaslight. Heavens, what a journey! Still in something of a daze, he looked about him for some clue as to how long he had been away – if, indeed, he had gone anywhere – and saw golden light stealing through the gap in the curtains. Early morning, then, since the hands of that confounded clock now read a quarter to seven – but which morning?

Moriarty rose from his chair, a trifle unsteadily, then walked to the window and flung the curtains open, then the window; the fire had gone out long ago, and the room was only marginally less cold than the air outside.

"Hullo, there!" he called to a passing boy – perhaps the very same one who had sung so atrociously earlier. "What's today?"

"Today, sir? Why, Christmas Day, o' course!"

Moriarty nodded – of course it was. "Much obliged." He closed the window again, reseated himself at the desk, and began to write furiously. Only four months left to set his affairs in order...

"Professor?" Moran's eyes widened to see Moriarty standing on his front doorstep. "Is anything wrong?"

"On the contrary, Moran," Moriarty smiled. "May I come in?"

Moran stood back at once, opening the door wide. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, sir, I just..."

"Understandable, Colonel. This was quite the last minute decision on my part." Moriarty allowed Moran to usher him into the sitting room and gratefully seated himself in one of the fireside armchairs – finding a cab this morning had been extremely difficult. "You will be relieved to know that, after much reflection, I have reconsidered my verdict from yesterday. Business in the Firm will continue as usual."

Moran blinked. "Well, I won't pretend I'm not glad to hear that, sir," he said slowly. "I hadn't relished the idea of being cooped up until Holmes offed himself, and that's a fact."

Moriarty nodded in sympathy, wishing he could satisfy the curiosity which was practically radiating off the man. Moran would have to grow accustomed to having his movements curtailed soon enough – attempted murder carried a life sentence. He deeply regretted that he could not allow his loyal friend to follow him this time, he would miss his lieutenant sorely. But it was now clear to Moriarty where his destiny truly lay, far off in the future; all he lacked at the moment was the means to resurrect himself. Once Dr. Martin Fenwick of New London had mastered the science of cellular duplication, Moriarty was quite sure the man would be delighted to learn that a certain vault in the Bank of England contained genetic samples from the world's greatest criminal mind.

"At any rate, that was not my only motive for visiting you. I have decided to take your excellent advice."

Moran eyed him uncertainly. "Which was?"

"You were, as I recall, quite insistent that I should not spend the entire holiday snowed in by paperwork." Moriarty smiled at Moran's incredulous look and added simply, "You were right." Seeing that a response would not be forthcoming from his speechless lieutenant, he continued, "And that being the case, I've come to ask you to dinner this evening – if you are not otherwise engaged, of course."

"On the contrary, sir," Moran all but stammered. "I should be delighted!"

"Then I shall look forward to your company," Moriarty said sincerely, rising from his chair again.

Moran followed him all the way back to the front door before asking abruptly, "Professor? What made you change your mind?"

"What about?"

Moran shrugged expansively. "Any of it."

Moriarty hesitated, then said slowly, "Let us say that yours were not the only words last night to make an impression." And that reminded him... "By the by, do you happen to know the way to the nearest church? I have a certain commission for the priest..."

* * *

A/N: And cue theme music from a certain 90s cartoon! ;) Once again, many thanks to Aleine Skyfire and Charles Dickens for their assistance – and Merry Christmas to all!


	23. A New Leaf

_From Garonne – Daylight robbery_

* * *

Watson usually closed his surgery early on Christmas Eve – no matter how carefully one planned, there always seemed to be last-minute shopping to do – but this year he had something very special in mind. Mary had told him during their courtship that she adored Fox Brush orchids, a flower she remembered fondly from her childhood in India. Watson was determined to surprise her with some this Christmas, though it had taken him ages to find a place in Covent Garden which sold them, and at a shocking price, too! Still, nothing was too good for his Mary, and the look on her face alone would be worth it.

With visions of his wife's shining smile still dancing in his head, Watson completely failed to hear the angry shouts and footsteps ahead until somebody cannoned into him headfirst, sending them both toppling in a shower of... white petals?! Watson blinked, trying to get his breath back, finally getting a good look at his assailant, and his eyes widened. " _Alex_? What in the world...?"

The Irregular looked absolutely horrified. "S-sorry, Doc, Oi din't..."

" _There he is!_ " Two men were running towards them, one of them clearly a constable.

Watson quickly took hold of the boy's jacket before he could bolt again; he had an awful suspicion where this now somewhat ragged bouquet of daisies had come from. "Alex, please tell me you paid for these," he said slowly, though without much hope – even flowers like these were expensive at this time of year. It broke his heart to see the boys regressing to old habits after everything he and Holmes had tried to teach them.

Before Alex could answer, the shopkeeper caught them up, seizing the boy by the collar. "You young devil! Thank you, sir, much obliged. Constable!"

The policeman nodded at Watson in recognition as he came forward. "Doctor Watson."

Watson was immensely glad to see a familiar face under the helmet. "Why, Constable Travis, good evening!"

Travis smiled back faintly – unlike Holmes, Watson took the trouble of learning every new face on the police force, and it usually paid off. "One of yours, Doctor?"

"Indeed he is," Watson nodded gravely, recognising that the constable would be only too glad to have an excuse not to take the lad in, thus escaping the wrath of their employer. "And Alex was just about to explain why he _forgot_ to pay for his flowers," he said, giving the frightened boy a pointed look.

" _Forgot_?" the shopkeeper spluttered. "Constable, if you're going to simply..."

Travis held up one hand. "Hold on now, Mr. Harker – I know you're upset, but we don't want to be acting too hasty, like. Let's hear it, lad."

Alex nodded, hunching his shoulders miserably. "S'our Mam, Doctor. She 'ad t'go back to 'orspital after the babby came, and the doctor said she won' be comin' 'ome fer another week, an..." A very real sniff escaped.

"Well, that certainly sounds reasonable to me," Watson said sympathetically, trying hard to keep a straight face, which was made all the more difficult by the sight of the shopkeeper's incandescent one. "Constable?"

Travis nodded. "You be more careful in future, young man, d'you hear?" he said sternly.

"Yessir." Alex hung his head, the very picture of meek contrition. "Sorry, Doctor, Oi wasn' lookin'."

"I gathered," Watson said dryly, reaching into his coat. "Which no doubt explains how your purse fell into my pocket. How much did you say the flowers cost, Mr. Harker?"

* * *

Walking swiftly away from the still bristling shopkeeper with Alex firmly in tow, Watson sorrowfully counted his remaining change – he was quite sure that Mr. Harker had doubled the price of the daisies, knowing full well that Watson wouldn't be inclined to haggle once the charges had been dropped.

"Oi'm _orful_ sorry, Doctor," Alex mumbled, staring red-faced down at the pavement. "Y' goin' t' tell the Guv'nor?"

Watson sighed as he put his wallet away. He certainly hadn't planned to say anything, although Holmes would probably find out anyhow, with his usual apparent omniscience. "No, lad, I'm not... but I would strongly advise you to do so." He gripped the lad's shoulder gently. "Holmes will be disappointed, yes, but not so very angry, not if you tell him the truth. After all, we've all done things that we're not proud of."

"Even you an' the Guv'nor?"

Watson's lips twitched, but he answered solemnly, "Yes, Alex, even Holmes and I."

Alex nodded, eyes still downcast, but there was a new resolution in his face that made Watson feel a good deal more cheerful.

"Now, you'd better go and take those flowers to your mother while they're still fresh," the doctor went on kindly. "And you give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery, all right?"

"Oi will," Alex said shyly, then suddenly flung his arms around Watson, flowers and all, and hugged him for a moment, before dashing off again. At the corner, he suddenly stopped, turned and shouted back with a sheepish grin, "Hi, Doctor! 'Appy Christmas!"

Watson sighed again, waving back and smiling. "Happy Christmas, Alex." The boy hadn't actually said 'thank you', but he'd meant it, and that was enough. And now he'd better go and see how far he could make five shillings and sixpence stretch – a nice poinsettia would help to brighten up the sitting room, and it would last longer, too...


	24. Boldly

_From Domina Temporis – Miracles (221B #3)_

* * *

" _Good King Wenceslas looked out_  
 _On the feast of Stephen..._ "

One benefit of Christmas: carols gave Lestrade a damn good way of keeping his face from freezing!

" _When the snow lay round about,_  
 _Deep and crisp and even..._ "

This latest lot was rapidly turning to slush, though – more accident reports to fill out tomorrow.

Purely on instinct, he found himself following the old, familiar route into Baker Street, shaking his head at himself in amusement... then an oddly-shaped shadow on the snow had him staring upwards in disbelief.

Standing proudly in the bow window was one of the largest pine trees Lestrade had ever seen indoors, hung with all manner of ornaments, crowned with a shining gold star...

Lestrade's first thought was to check the house number – but no, this was 221B, all right! His chilled face slowly melted into a broad grin. Those two had undeniably been the making of each other... but it looked as if they were both doing a bang-up job with the keeping of each other, too.

He glanced warily about the dark, deserted street, then tossed a quick, furtive salute up at the window. "Merry Christmas, gentlemen..." Well, he'd best be heading back now – maybe call round tomorrow and exchange compliments of the season.

" _'Mark my footsteps, my good page,_  
 _Tread thou in them boldly'..._ "


	25. A Christmas Cracker

_From I'm Nova – Coded messages._

* * *

"Edwards... Tumpington Major... Grantham... Potts... Holmes Minor..."

Sherlock wriggled through the crush of boys surrounding the schoolmaster handing out the Christmas post, mercifully collecting only a couple of elbow jabs on the way out. The others were all far too excited about their expected parcels from home to bother about one small envelope – a card for 'Show-off' Holmes wasn't likely to contain pocket money, anyhow.

All the same, Sherlock took care not to open the envelope until he was sure he was alone. The address was in Mycroft's handwriting, and the card had a simple, tasteful picture of snow-covered countryside on the front – no red-faced carollers or gaudily decorated trees for Holmes Major! Sometimes, Sherlock seriously wondered if he and Mycroft shared anything except a last name – and that had caused problems enough when he started school here, every master apparently expecting him to be a younger – if thinner – facsimile of the serious, respectful student who had seemingly carried off every possible honour, including the coveted office of Head Boy.

Opening the card, Sherlock stared. The usual brusque but sincere Christmas greeting had been replaced by a mysterious sequence of letters:

ZJJJX FPJRLNZBL LPJJXDFV

* * *

Sherlock spent five days trying to translate Mycroft's code, filling every available scrap of paper with possible cyphers in between dodging kicks and spitballs from the other boys staying at school for the holidays, happy to vent their frustrations on such an easy target. Finally in growing frustration, he showed it to his mathematics teacher; Professor Newman took one look at the card, then handed it back with an enigmatic smile, saying "Well, I don't know any human language that uses triple letters without hyphens."

Sherlock had thought it odd at the time, but his teacher drawing attention to that detail gave it new significance. The letter J was used six times, which meant it was probably 'E', but no English word he could think of used a triple E, or any other triple letter. Only eleven different letters used here, too... and all of them even-numbered, that couldn't be a coincidence. So if no odd letters were being used... each code letter must have _two_ possible solutions!

Starting at the beginning of the alphabet, Sherlock began pairing. A = B, B = D, C = F... then when he got to M = Z, he began again, N = B, O = D... With a working cypher in front of him, he quickly ended up with two rows of possible letters:

MEEEL CHEIFGMAF FHEELBCK

ZRRRY PURVSTZNS SURRYOPX

And once he'd done that, it was easy to read. Sherlock grinned. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft." A two-step code, his brother's best present yet – and now it was his turn...


	26. Storm in a Teacup

_From Madam'zelleGiry – Mrs. Hudson's tea ritual_

* * *

From Mrs. Martha Hudson's Book of Household Management:

Making Tea

Check that both lodgers are either out of the house or in bed.

Rinse kettle thoroughly with fresh water, fill and put on the hob to boil. While kettle is boiling, check teapot for foreign bodies.

Fetch sugar bowl from pantry, test carefully to make sure that it _is_ only sugar. Retrieve sugar tongs and tea strainer from whatever experiment Mr. Holmes has borrowed them for this time, wash both items thoroughly.

Fetch cup and saucer from crockery cupboard, wash thoroughly. Make mental note to speak to Mr. Holmes about suspiciously absent sixth cup.

Once kettle has boiled, rinse teapot with hot water, empty and refill with two teacups of water. Add two teaspoonfuls of loose leaf tea to teapot, allow to steep for two minutes. Pour out tea into teacup through strainer, add sugar to taste.

Fetch milk jug from icebox, find that it has been left out too long again, make mental note to buy more. Make do with lemon.

Sit down to enjoy well-deserved tea for all of five seconds before bell rings. Sigh deeply, resolve to try again tomorrow.


	27. Where There's Smoke

_From Hades Lord of the Dead – "'Spontaneous combustion,' Holmes concluded."_

* * *

(Sequel to Chapter 16.)

**Police report filed by Inspector G. Lestrade of New Scotland Yard.**

'At 9 o'clock on the 26th of December, 1896, I and as many of my colleagues as could be spared were summoned urgently to Grove Road in Bow, East London. A fire had broken out in a firework factory, said premises owned by a Mr. Edward Cotterill. Our orders were to assist any other policemen there to regulate the traffic and crowds, so that the fire brigade could perform their duty unimpeded.

'On arrival, it was reported to me by Captain Eyre Shaw of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade that several sizeable explosions had occurred already, and many more were expected. Since the fire could not be fought, or the building entered, without far more risk than usual to the safety of the fire crew, their main objective at present was to limit any damage to the surrounding area and crowd from flying embers or stray rockets.

'I inquired as to whether anyone had been in the building when the fire began. In answer, Captain Shaw wordlessly pointed towards a quartet of constables, who appeared to be holding two bedraggled civilians in custody. Despite their soot-blackened and disheveled condition, I recognised them immediately as Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson of 221B Baker Street, Marylebone...'

_Lestrade leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Reports like this entirely failed to do justice to the headaches he kept having to endure with the Great Detective – and how on earth was he meant to concisely record the convoluted explanation the pair had given him?_

'On inquiry, Mr. Holmes announced that he and Dr. Watson had discovered the identity of the vendor of the wax-coated firecrackers. To his credit, the vendor had no knowledge of the true nature of his wares, until he had innocently lit one in his own home. The vendor, whose identity Mr. Holmes respectfully declined to divulge, was subsequently willing to identify his supplier.

'Dr. Watson then inquired if I was familiar with the mental illness known as pyromania. Assuming the doctor's prognosis is correct, Mr. Cotterill suffered from the fixation, which had naturally been stirred, then aggravated, by his chosen profession. Cotterill had also suffered financial troubles in his business of late, and hoped to win the commission for the firework display in Her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee celebration next year. The commission, however, was awarded to his chief business rival, Mr. Charles Brock, of Crystal Palace Fireworks.

'Mr. Holmes then regretfully informed me that it would be impossible to prove the cause of Cotterill's subsequent mental breakdown in a court of law. The suspect is deceased, allegedly burned alive by his own handiwork. The first half of this statement was later confirmed by the discovery of a single, charred corpse in the ruins of the factory once the fire had finally been extinguished, and the melted remains of some kind of firearm beside the body. Mr. Holmes's statement becoming a little too colourful at this point, Dr. Watson took it on himself to fill in the rest of the details...'

_Lestrade shook his head – he hadn't thought Mr. Holmes capable of using that kind of language. Still, London's criminals really ought to know better by now than to strike at the detective by threatening his best friend. Mr. Cotterill would never know how lucky he was that he'd burned to death before Mr. Holmes had gotten his hands on him._

'While searching the factory for evidence...' _Lestrade had carefully refrained from inquiring how the pair had gained entrance;_ 'Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were unaware that the suspect was also in the building and aware of their presence. Cotterill took advantage of their distraction and fired upon them with complete disregard for any of the inflammable materials nearby. They were unable to approach the suspect, who continued to discharge his firearm seemingly at random, or to exit the factory. The standoff came to an end when Cotterill began screaming in terror, his coat sleeve having caught fire from a crate of Roman candles which, according to Dr. Watson, had at that very moment self-ignited.

'I am given to understand by Mr. Holmes, a student of chemistry himself, that this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. If chemicals such as chlorate and sulphur accidentally come into contact inside a poorly-made firework while damp, it may take several days of drying out before they react with each other. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were most fortunate that this reaction occurred when it did, and that they were able to escape the burning building without suffering a similar fate.'

_Lestrade put down his pen with a sigh. Plausible explanation it might be, but he knew, as surely as if he'd actually troubled to examine Dr. Watson's firearm, that he would have found at least one chamber empty..._


	28. Little Angels

_From cjnwriter – Snow angels_

* * *

The second snow is falling fast upon a certain famous street  
And Mrs. Hudson, hard at work, keeps sharp ear out for racing feet.  
Hot chocolate and gingerbread will lure boys in with tempting smell –  
The Great Detective's not the only resident who pays them well!

A hasty knock, then back door opens; freezing draught sweeps down the hall,  
Heralds troop of ragged soldiers, heeding baking's clarion call.  
"Come in, boys, and mind you wipe your feet upon the mat this time!"  
Boys are even worse than Mr. Holmes for tracking mud and slime.

In they march beneath her stern but kindly gaze, until the last  
Sheepishly shuts door behind him, shedding coat a tad too fast.  
Coming closer, Mrs. Hudson soon detects the reason why:  
"Freddy, what _have_ you been doing, rolling round inside a sty?"

Freddy shakes his head and mumbles, "Made an angel in the snow..."  
Mrs. Hudson sighs. "And never thought of what might be below?"  
Wiggins snickers, "Well, he could've waited till we'd crossed the street!"  
Most important rule of London: When out walking, watch your feet...

* * *

A/N: Apologies to cjnwriter, my poetry muse has a mind of its own!


	29. A Fate Worse Than Death

_From KnightFury – Here am I, forced to spend the night in a prison cell, in the company of those that I helped to put here._

* * *

"Gidday, Bluey! Fancy seeing you here!" The atrocious Australian drawl of my cellmate almost drowns out the stifled sniggers from the others. Still, one can hardly wonder at it, opals are so dreadfully vulgar. A stone of refinement and taste displays one or two colours only; my owner keeps that brooch purely for novelty's sake, I feel quite sure.

I pointedly ignore the opal's impertinent remarks, wishing fervently that my own snug little casket had not opened when my lady's jewel box was placed within the hotel safe. Would that I had never caused her such anxiety in the first place! So worthy and loyal a custodian, her daily adoration sweet beyond words... until a rough, uncouth hand, moist with fear, snatched me from my resting place and crammed me first into a dusty, lint-filled coat pocket... and then... I shudder at the mere thought of the humiliation – nay, the outrage! – that was soon to follow.

In the twenty years since I first saw the light of day, I have been hidden in pockets, sacks, boxes, baskets, purses; clutched in grimy, sweaty hands, handled with the utmost reverence by white-gloved hands; dropped into sand, snow, mud and unspeakably worse; plucked from streams, canals, ocean beds, and even pools of blood... but never before has my hallowed person been stuffed down the throat of a goose!


	30. Overturned

_From mrspencil – A flower seller, a lamplighter and a schoolteacher assist in a case._

* * *

(For those who aren't completely familiar with 'The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter', I recommend reading that story first, as this is a sequel to that case.)

History would record the winter of '97 as a particularly mild one. Very little snow had fallen so far on the sleepy University city of Cambridge, its denizens seeming to breathe a collective sigh of relief now that exams and Christmas were safely over, and looking forward to ringing in the New Year. Still, not everyone was taking a well-deserved rest; two voices murmured low in a dark, deserted classroom...

"All going well?"

"Perfectly. I've cross-examined them all: watertight alibis, the lot of them."

"Has anyone suspected?"

"Not that I could tell. What have you found?"

The first speaker patted his coat pocket with a thin, grimy hand. "Our man should have thought to check the grate a little more carefully. That pink paper sticks out like a diamond in a coal mine."

"Leave the descriptions to the published author, old chap," Watson grinned, then sobered. "What's our next move, then? Armstrong?"

Holmes nodded, eyes gleaming. "I think the good doctor will be most interested in what we've discovered."

* * *

"Come in." Doctor Leslie Armstrong looked up from marking test papers as the two men entered his study, eyes widening at the sight of one in particular. "Why, Mr. Holmes! You've come after all? I thought you had to stay in London on another case."

"Forgive me, Dr. Armstrong," Holmes smiled, bowing rather than shaking hands this time. "I thought it best if only Watson knew that I was following after you two on the next train. If our man had learned of my arrival..."

Armstrong nodded, expression clearing. "Hence why you're dressed as a lamplighter, I gather?"

"One of my better disguises," Holmes said, glancing down in satisfaction at his neat blue coat; the straggling beard had been itching like mad all day, though, he couldn't wait to take that off. "A lamplighter may pass almost anywhere after dark with barely a glance. You will be relieved to hear that we may already have gathered enough evidence to clear young Staunton of his noble relative's murder."

* * *

Godfrey Staunton rose hastily as the policeman unlocked the cell, allowing the trio to enter. "Mr. Holmes! Dr. Armstrong!" Staunton's eyes glowed with renewed hope at Holmes's returning so soon; seeing it made Watson's heart ache, knowing that light would fade all too quickly once the poor young man learned who had framed him...

A quarter of an hour later, the final piece of the puzzle strode in, stopping dead in confusion on seeing the crowd already there. "Godfrey? What's going on, old chap?" Cyril Overton's open, comely face was completely at odds with his troubled eyes, glancing between each man, then at last to the escorting policeman at his shoulder. "I thought you were wanting company, your note said..."

"Do be seated, Mr. Overton," Holmes said pleasantly. "Pardon the deception, but Godfrey Staunton does indeed require your presence in order to resolve one or two trifling matters: namely, your attempt to blackmail his good self, not to mention the untimely death of his uncle, Lord Mount-James."

The blood instantly drained from the rugby captain's face, his massive frame seeming to collapse in on itself. Watson quickly stepped forward and assisted the constable in helping the shaken young man to a chair, who collapsed into it, face buried in trembling hands.

Poor Staunton was looking equally stunned, mouth open. "C-Cyril? You... No!" The young man leapt to his feet, eyes flashing in his pale face. "You're wrong, Mr. Holmes! Cyril never harmed anyone, I'd swear on the Bible he didn't!"

"That won't be necessary," Watson said gently, casting a reproachful look at Holmes. "Holmes didn't say that Overton murdered your uncle. He is partially responsible for Lord Mount-James's death – but then so were you, and your uncle himself." He went on as both students looked at him in bewilderment, "It was apoplexy, Godfrey. Your uncle was already in extremely poor health with his gout; that argument between you would only have hastened the inevitable."

"The maid had found Lord Mount-James on the floor beside the writing desk," Holmes said. "When the stroke occurred, he most likely hit his head on the way down..."

"Causing the wound to his head and the broken neck," Dr. Armstrong finished, laying a gentle hand on the miserable young man's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Godfrey."

Staunton gave a jerky nod, gratefully accepting the doctor's help in sitting back down. "But... Cyril, why would you... You were the one who told me not to take that note seriously!"

"I think, for everyone's sake, that we had better go back to the beginning," Holmes said calmly. "When Dr. Armstrong came to Baker Street yesterday, he showed me the blackmail note which you had received, in the form of words and letters cut from some printed material. From the type font and distinctive pink paper, it was immediately clear to me that these clippings were all from headlines in the _Sporting Times_ , informally known as 'The Pink 'Un'." He produced the note.

_I know about your wife. Your uncle will, too, if you do not pay._

"But pay what, and how? A very strange blackmailer who gives no specifics. The date, too, seemed significant, as you were summoned the very next day by Lord Mount-James, who had already received the threatened revelation that you had married without his knowledge or consent. Really, Mr. Overton," Holmes tutted. "A blackmailer who leaves his intended victim no time to respond appropriately to such a threat? Money clearly could not have been the object."

"He was talking about leaving!" Overton burst out suddenly, turning to Staunton. "Do you know what a job I had to talk the other chaps around when you missed the match?! Oxford's still crowing over that win!"

"I told you afterwards why I'd gone!" Staunton shot back. "You honestly think I should have abandoned my poor Alice for a stupid _game_?!"

"That was certainly the impression _I_ received when Mr. Overton first came to me regarding your disappearance last February," Holmes cut in smoothly. "Your captain was clearly far more concerned about losing the match than he was for your safety. Such an honest and wholesome-looking athlete... yet who cared far more for the sport itself than his teammates' well-being. Such a driven young man would not hesitate to act in his own best interests."

"Not mine, Mr. Holmes!" Overton protested hoarsely. "I did it for Cambridge, for the team! We couldn't lose Godfrey, we just couldn't, we would've been a laughing-stock!"

"So you did your best to ensure that Mr. Staunton would have no choice but to remain?"

Overton nodded staunchly. "Lord Mount-James was such a stiff-neck, I knew he'd do something stupid if he found out about the marriage – but I never dreamed he'd drop dead over it!"

"And you thought I'd murdered him!" Staunton shouted. "Don't deny it, I saw the look on your face when the police came!"

"Well, what was I supposed to think?! You go to see your uncle in a temper, he orders you to admit you'd been a bloody fool about that girl..." Whatever Overton might have said next was cut short by a crashing right hook from Staunton, the combined efforts of all four other men needed to hold him back from striking his bloody-nosed captain a second time.

When order had finally been restored, Holmes readdressed Overton sternly, "I made inquiries at the newsstand where you usually purchase the _Sporting Times_ and learned that you had purchased two copies of the issue before last. One copy went to the admittedly impressive collection in your room, and the second to make the blackmail notes. I noted while looking at your collection that the issue in question was in perfect condition – you had not read it at all. But why would you not do so, unless you had had easy access to another copy of the same issue? It was no great leap of logic to check the fireplace, a very brief search turning up unburnt fragments of pink paper buried in the ash below the grate.

"When Mr. Staunton was arrested, you knew he would mention the notes to the police, incriminating you as an accessory to murder if they discovered that you were the blackmailer..."

"And I couldn't burn either of them," Overton muttered through the handkerchief Watson was holding to his nose. "I figured Lord Mount-James's one was somewhere in his study, but the police were crawling all over the house by then!"

"And unluckily for you, you were seen by a flower seller while on reconnaissance, who had no difficulty in describing you." Holmes smiled grimly. "As to that second note, you needn't have worried: neither the police nor I found a trace of it. Lord Mount-James most likely burned it to a complete crisp."

"But why show that first note to me and ask for your help?" Dr. Armstrong asked.

"To eliminate himself as a suspect," Holmes answered. "He might have done better to have come in person to plead Staunton's case, but he feared that I would see the truth in his face, as he believed it: that Staunton was a murderer, and he himself equally guilty. When Dr. Watson returned with you to the University, he had orders to keep Overton occupied by helping him to interview those who had the least motive: the other team members, all of whom were entirely unaware of the real reason for Staunton's absence in February, or his intentions of leaving Cambridge at the end of the spring term. His next task was to visit the mortuary and examine the body of Lord Mount-James, which, as has already been stated, revealed that the peer died of natural if unfortunate causes, with no sign of foul play."

"And right sorry we are that we didn't realise it sooner, Mr. Staunton," the constable added sheepishly, speaking up for the first time. "But with what you told us about that argument with your uncle..."

Staunton gave a slow, weary nod. "He never would have changed his mind, any more than I would." He looked up at Overton sadly. "Cyril, I never gave a damn about the money – it was all for Alice's sake that we kept our marriage quiet! My uncle's fortune can go back to whatever devil he sold his soul to for it," he finished bitterly.

Dr. Armstrong cleared his throat apologetically. "Well, you are still the legal heir, Godfrey, I'm sorry to say. Your uncle's estate is now yours, whatever you decide to do with it. In the meantime, however," he said, giving the constable a pointed look, "I'm sure the police will be happy for you to come back _after_ New Year to answer any remaining questions they may have."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for any confusion at the beginning, but I just couldn't resist doing a Holmes for this one. You know, being as annoyingly mysterious as possible until the last minute... Conclusion next chapter!


	31. Happily Ever Before

_From I'm Nova – A new beginning._

* * *

(Sequel to Chapter 30.)

A few evenings later, Watson climbed the Baker Street stairs to find Holmes engrossed in a letter before the fire. "From Dr. Armstrong. Apparently, Overton had meant to petition the University to offer Staunton the position of assistant trainer if his uncle cut him out of the will."

"Well, at least he wasn't planning on leaving his friend entirely destitute." Watson snuggled down into his own armchair with a yawn. "So what _will_ Staunton do with his inheritance, I wonder?"

"According to Armstrong, the lad's planning to donate half of it to the University's athletics programme... and the other half to the British Medical Association."

Watson's eyebrows shot right up. "The B.M.A.? Whatever for?"

"I suspect it will go towards researching a cure for consumption." Holmes's eyes were soft as he rose and fetched two glasses and the whiskey decanter from the sideboard. "As for Staunton himself, Armstrong writes that the young man is seriously considering a new career as a firefighter."

Watson almost choked, heartily glad that Holmes hadn't given him his glass yet, as he felt sure he would have dropped it. "You're joking!"

Holmes grinned, handing him the letter. "I am, actually. Staunton decided to stay on and take Overton's place as captain of the rugby team."

"Good for him," Watson smiled. "Not that being a firefighter isn't a worthy calling, but the lad clearly has talent for the sport – it would be a shame to waste it."

"Indeed." Holmes carefully poured out the whisky. "Not every New Year has to signal a fresh start, I suppose."

"I suppose not," Watson agreed cautiously. He could tell something was on Holmes's mind, but the detective usually required careful handling in order to share his thoughts. Thus the countdown towards midnight had almost been whiled away completely before Holmes nodded at the notebook in which Watson was busily updating his notes for this latest case.

"Do you know, Watson, it strikes me that detective stories are rather unique, in one respect."

"Oh?" Watson asked a trifle absently, mind still full of _post mortem_ results.

"Well, most stories unfold in linear fashion, cause to effect, do they not?"

"I suppose so."

"But with a mystery story, the narrative is reversed, beginning with the end result: the crime; and the detective, or I should say, the writer, then proceeds to tell the story backwards, ending with whatever happened to set the chain of events in motion."

Watson blinked. "Well, yes..." he said slowly. "A bit simplistic, perhaps, but essentially correct." It was true, though, in an odd sort of way: for a detective, and those around him, the end was just the beginning of the story. He gave Holmes a questioning smile. "What's brought this on, old chap? All this talk of beginnings and endings..."

"You're wondering if my whimsical musings have anything to do with the fast-approaching New Year?" Holmes shrugged. "Mm, possibly – although I was thinking more along the lines of this most recent case."

"What about it?" Watson hoped he didn't sound too defensive – it would be a great shame to end the old year with yet another argument on this well-worn subject.

"Well... merely that I can see, for such a case as this, what a challenge it must be to give the reader a dramatic revelation at the end, when it is obvious from the outset what is really going on."

"Obvious to _you_ , you mean," Watson corrected with a smile of affectionate resignation. Still, he could see what even that backhanded compliment had cost his friend. "Thank you, Holmes." _And apology accepted._

* * *

A/N: Whew, challenge completed! Hope you all enjoyed these. Many thanks to Hades and all those who participated/reviewed – this was so much fun!


End file.
